Stardust
by KismetJeska
Summary: For Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the odds are far from in their favour. The 74th Hunger Games will change their lives in every way- if either of them make it out alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Author note: Hello there! This won't follow the exact plot of either text- think the Sherlock characters in the Hunger Games universe, with a lot of references to both. There's a lot of AU, a lot of character death, a bunch of angst and eventual John/Sherlock slash.**

**Anyway, here you go: this is Stardust. I hope you enjoy it (if you do, review- it makes my day!)**

**J. x**

* * *

><p>When Sherlock woke up, the other side of the bed was cold. He wasn't really shocked; it had been a long time since Mycroft spent the night at home. But in a pathetic little way, Sherlock had hoped his brother would make the effort to be with him. It was, after all, the day of the Reaping.<p>

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. The room was small and dark, but he could make out the outlines of what surrounded him in the gloom. A round wooden table holding a crumpled pile of clothes. A squat cupboard pushed right to the corner (holding half a stale bread roll, a can of green beans and a small burlap sack, a few scoops of rice left at the bottom). And on the other side of the room, two chairs with mismatched blankets lovingly hand-sewn and thrown over their ugly skeletons. A small stove. A bucket of water that could be filled with water and used to bathe.

He hated the place.

He swung his legs off the bed and slid into his work boots. His shift at the factory wasn't until five o'clock this evening and the Reaping wasn't till two. Night shifts and day shifts weren't mutually exclusive in District 8, so he really should have been catching up on sleep. But his nightmares were always worse on days like today, so he decided there was no point in trying. Sherlock sorted through the pile of clothes until his fingers brushed against the familiar roughness of his coat. Pulling it on, he walked outside, shutting the door behind him. Finding a quiet place by the house, he sat to watch the sun rise.

Once upon a time, Mrs Hudson would have sat with him. Sherlock's mother died before he was a year old, and his father was arrested four years later for stealing fabric. They hadn't needed it. Food, they had needed. Money, they had needed. A few scraps of expensive silk weren't necessary to them or to anybody else. Nobody knew why he took them, but in the end it hadn't mattered. They hanged him anyway.

Sherlock had been lucky to have a neighbour like Mrs Hudson. She took him in- the orphan child, the boy nobody wanted. The strange boy who sat in corners alone and wouldn't play or smile or even speak most days. She was the only person who could coax food down his throat or persuade him to get dressed. It took him two years to fully re-join the world with her help, and he was harsher than before. He didn't dress his words up or waste time on sentimental things. He went to school and he worked in the factory. In his free time, he investigated things or carried out experiments. His life was solitary, and that felt right to him.

When Mrs Hudson died, he told himself it meant nothing. She had been old and he, at fifteen, was already treated as the adult of the household. He told himself that it made no difference if she was there or not. He told himself a lot of things. Sometimes they even helped.

A man walked past, clearly surprised to see somebody else awake this early in the morning when it was unneeded. "Good morning," the man greeted him. Sherlock blinked. He looked the man over. _Mid thirties, one- no, two- daughters, one of Reaping age, one too young. Anxious, frustrated, tired- but not because of this date in particular (breathing pattern and demeanour of an insomniac)_. Sherlock had never met the man before. District 8 was far too large for him to know everybody he worked with, even if he took an interest. The man passed by, and Sherlock didn't reply to his greeting. What was the point?

When it got light enough to see where he was going, Sherlock stood up and headed for the Vault. Checking a few times to make sure he wasn't being followed, he slipped into the old house unnoticed. He had nicknamed it the Vault after learning the word in a Speaking and Language lesson- it meant a space, a chamber, a place to keep valuables. Science and knowledge were more valuable than anything else to Sherlock, so it seemed a fitting name for the disused basement where he kept his experiments. His latest acquisition, a severed hand, was decaying quickly. He decided to use the few hours he had free to make detailed notes on its changing state.

Knowledge was the most important thing- even if actively seeking it was frowned upon. Most people he met believed what the Capitol fed them, swallowed it without a doubt. He wondered why he alone seemed to have this devilish voice in his head- telling him this was wrong, that things could be different. That things _should _be different. He was sensible enough to keep those thoughts buried deep and carry on working diligently. He went to school and ran machines and conducted experiments in any free-time he had. And he occasionally stole fabric. Just because.

At seventeen, he was close to being safe from the Reaping. He was sure he would never have children and Mycroft was older than him, so soon the Games' deadly effect wouldn't be able to touch him. For now, he was forced to watch the Games- the feeds were shown in all the schools with no pause.

He hated the Hunger Games. It was true that part of him loved the planning, plotting, guessing who would do what and why. That part was almost enjoyable. But the pain came in when he couldn't tell them what he knew. He could see in seconds what would kill the children and how, but nothing he did could save them. He just had to sit and watch them die, one by one.

Once he was old enough to leave school, he planned to detach and exit the real world. The machines in the factories were so loud that they drowned out the TV screens showing the torture and death. He didn't care if it was mandatory- he would not watch the Games. He would live alone inside his head and, if that got too bad, then he'd just stop living.

Mycroft would be fine. Mycroft was the mayor of District 8- at twenty four, the youngest on record. His name had never been called in a Reaping, and he was now well out of danger. Mycroft had started helping out with the political side of things very early on, and his job paid well. They had never had to take tesserae. Mycroft still sent him money every month, along with some food rations if he found out Sherlock hadn't been going to the market.

People were getting ready by the time Sherlock left the Vault. He could see families flocking around, expressions ranging from clearly faked positivity through to sheer and utter dread. He checked the time. Only an hour until the Reaping. People everywhere would be putting on dresses and suits, combing their hair, washing and preening. Sherlock had ought to be getting ready too. He watched two girls run by, bickering over who would get to wear the only nice dress they owned. He wondered if it occurred to them that they were dressing themselves for slaughter. He stood there for a few moments, before turning around and walking back into the Vault.

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><p>It took two buckets, brimming to the surface with icy water, to wake Harry up. That, John decided, was not a good sign.<p>

She lifted her head as though it was too heavy for her neck and stared at him with bleary eyes. "What?" she slurred, touching her hand to her head. She had definitely drunk more than usual. That worried him even more. John wasn't sure how much more alcohol than Harry's 'usual' that a person could drink and still be okay.

"The Reaping," he answered quietly. "It starts in thirty minutes. We need to be in the square as soon as possible." Harry responded with the kind of language their father had hated, and lay her head back down on the table.

"You need to get ready, Harry," he told her firmly, shaking her. "I found your good dress, and I think you'll still fit into it." Touching her shoulder, he was painfully aware of how sharp her shoulder blades were. Despite the amount she drunk, Harry seemed to be wasting away by the day. Looking at the size of the dress he had draped neatly over a chair and the size of his sister, John felt a stab of pain. She had definitely been healthier this time last year.

"It doesn't matter to me," she murmured. "I can't be picked."

That was true. Harry had made it through her seven years of entry without being chosen. Their parents had died in the mines the first year she was eligible for entry, when John was only six. Harry was six years older than John- considered old enough to enter the Games, but not old enough to live alone. The orphanage could have been worse, he supposed. But he couldn't forget the missed meals and slaps and stinging flesh.

As soon as Harry hit eighteen, she moved out and took John with her. Between Harry taking laundry from a lot of families in District 12 and people seeming to like John in general, they had traded and earned enough to get by. The small house they moved into wasn't much, but it was infinitely better than their previous accommodation. Harry had looked after him, and John finally received the kind of care he had been starting to forget.

Things had been fine (well, as fine as things could be) until two years ago. Harry should have been continuing her laundry work or going down the mines. Instead she began to drink for days on end, crying and eventually collapsing in on herself- a catatonic mess of nothing. She had woke up nearly every night since, screeching 'Clara!' at the top of her lungs.

Clara Craftsman. District 12's female tribute for the 72nd Hunger Games. Eighteen years old. She had been taking tesserae since she was twelve. She was so close yet so far from ever escaping the Games. In a way, they all were.

Maybe losing a lover was something you never really recovered from. Maybe Harry had seen enough pain for a lifetime. Either way, she had shut down, and John took over the running of his household. He was seventeen now, and had taken tesserae twice each year since Clara's death- once for him, once for his sister. There were only two extra slips with 'John Watson' written on them in that ball, but it felt like so many more.

"Harry-" he began.

"I told you, I'm safe!" she snapped.

"Yeah, well I'm not. So come on."

Cajoling Harry into the dress took a long time. He begged, pleaded and shouted, and eventually she pulled the hated thing on, tears streaming silently down her face. He left her to compose herself and dressed himself in silence. His training session with one of the village Healers was cancelled today in honour of the Reaping. He wondered what he would do after the draw. He never really knew what to do with himself on his rare days off.

He found himself coming to the same question every time he had time to do nothing but think: who was he? He knew the hands that grabbed dandelion roots from the fields, the eyes that refused to cry, the feet that moved him on an endless treadmill of school, training, Harry, school. He undestood his body's movements and purpose- but what about his mind? His heart?

He shook the pointless thoughts aside, and went to check on Harry. She had managed to stop crying and was standing by the door.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

"No," he lied. Harry took a long drink from the small flask she clutched in her hand.

"You should be," she said.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Mabel brushed a hand anxiously against Greg's cheek. He caught it, and held it there.<p>

"Quit fussing. I'm fine, Grandma. Honestly," he reassured her.

"I don't like making you go there alone," she worried.

"I'm seventeen, Gran. I'm not a child."

"And a week ago, Greg, you were only sixteen. You're not an adult either."

"It'll be fine, I promise," he said. "There's no point in you coming." Squeezing her hand, he released it gently. The truth was that Mabel Lestrade was a very old woman now. She was half deaf, with poor eyesight and joints that shouted with pain when she moved. There was no way that Greg was making her walk all the way into the town centre just to watch a girl and boy get chosen for death.

"I'll be back within twenty minutes," he told her. She smiled fondly at him.

"Good boy. And you didn't take any tesserae?"

"No." This was a lie. Greg hated having to lie to his only family, but he didn't have a choice. He worked in an office, helping to organise the transport of various wares between districts. It was as good a job as any in District 6, but the hard truth was that it simply didn't pay enough. His grandmother was no longer fit enough to clean houses like she used to, so funds were even lower. He had sat down one day, done a lot of calculations, and come to the conclusion that they weren't going to make it through the winter. So he had entered his name once for tessera, for the first and hopefully the final time. He told himself that it was just a temporary fix. Afterwards, he'd take on more jobs, work longer hours. It would all work out.

"Good, good. I am so glad." Her smile faltered. "I am… so sorry." Her words were unexpected. He frowned.

"Sorry? What for, Grandma?"

"I'm sorry that you have to do this at all, Greg." Tears began to well in her eyes as she clutched at his hand. "You shouldn't have to- you're just- you're just a boy-"

Greg stared. He had never heard his grandmother speak like that. Nobody spoke like that. You didn't question the Games, or the Reaping, or the Capitol. He glanced around anxiously.

"Grandma, stop. You don't know what you're saying. I have to go now, but I won't be long."

Mabel sniffed, and composed herself. "You're right. You're right."

"Good. Then you stay inside and I'll be back as soon as I can. Okay?" Mabel nodded, and he smiled. He pulled his hand out of her grasp, careful not to jerk her wrists.

"It'll be okay!" he called as he shut the door. "I promise."

* * *

><p>Children were gathered in every district in Panem. In some districts, they stood in mixed groups. They had been pre-sorted, pre-chosen- the official Reaping had already taken place, away in locked rooms with soundproofed walls. The thousand or so children that had been summoned were made up of nine hundred and ninety-nine randomly selected decoys, the single tribute stood somewhere among them.<p>

In others, such as 12, every child and teenager in the district stood in neat, age-marked pens. Like animals, they waited, eyes fixed on the glass balls that held their fates.

The names rang out with clarity. Not a word was stumbled, not a letter was dropped. There was no mistaking the lucky victims that had been chosen for this year's events.

In District 8, Sherlock Holmes steadily walked to the front and took his position on the stage. Cameras pushed at each other to get in the best shot of his face, while people clutching betting slips leant forward eagerly to see if this year's kids would cry. Sherlock didn't. The girl who appeared next to him a few seconds later did. He stared blankly out at a crowd of people he did not know and probably never would.

In District 6, Greg stumbled a little on the steps. The announcer helped him to his feet, laughing good naturedly about his enthusiasm to get up there. He didn't hear her words. All he thought of was whether he would still be able to get back to his grandmother in twenty minutes like he had promised.

In District 12, John stood bolt upright, the way he saw the Peacekeepers dotted around the village stand. He stared straight ahead; head raised slightly, arms rigid at his sides. He stayed calm when he caught sight of Harry running towards the stage, screaming his name. He stayed calm when they restrained her and still she screamed, ripping at her own arms with her nails. He even stayed calm when the female Tribute was called, and he knew the girl who shakily ascended towards him. Molly Hooper. Sixteen years old. She was the daughter of the Healer he trained with, and they often worked together. She had a pet cat that she loved and a smile that made long days that little bit more bearable.

In twelve districts, twenty-four tributes stood and looked out at their friends, family, audience. Some wept. Some didn't. Some screamed, some pleaded and some laughed. It didn't make any difference. Every single pair of feet still trudged obediently to wherever they were sent.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hadn't expected Mycroft to visit. He knew his brother had been present at the Reaping- it was imperative that the Mayor attended the most important event of the year. But they hadn't seen each other for at least a week beforehand, or even looked at each other when the announcer called Sherlock's name.

"Does the Mayor always come and visit the tributes?" he asked after a few minutes. He had no problem with silence, but it did feel a little like wasted time.

"I'm not here as the Mayor, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, sinking down into one of the provided chairs. Sherlock followed his lead. At the factory, Sherlock dealt with cheap fabrics, things to be used for dishcloths or mops. He had never felt anything quite like the plush velvet of the furniture. It was soft against his skin as he ran his hand back and forth across the arm. It was a good distraction.

"Then why are you here?" he replied.

"As your brother, my dear sociopath. Did it ever occur to you that I might _care _that my only family has been marked for death?"

Family. The word sounded alien. He shared Mycroft's blood, that was true. But Mycroft hadn't spent hours persuading Sherlock to sip at water or milk. Mycroft hadn't hand-stitched him blankets and tucked them around him on dark nights where his thoughts were unkind and wouldn't leave him alone. As far as Sherlock was concerned, his closest and only family was the old woman who lay in an unmarked grave by the Vault.

"You don't think I could win, then?" Sherlock ignored the question and asked his own. Mycroft breathed out slowly.

"Sherlock, look at yourself." There was a mirror hung up in the decadent room so that people could check their appeal to the cameras. Sherlock glanced up from his seat, but Mycroft rose and closed the space in a few strides. His hand clamped down on his brother's shoulder.

"No, properly. Get up and tell me what you see." Sherlock obeyed, and looked at the person stood behind the glass. He wasn't quite sure what to say. His latest growth spurt had left him long, gangly limbs. He was too thin, with cheekbones that stood out against his face. His hair was dark, his skin was pale, his eyes were a colour that nobody had a name for.

"I don't understand," he frowned. "What am I looking at?"

"You tell me. Are you looking at a victor?"

Sherlock cast his mind back to the people he had seen win games or come close. Muscly, larger than average, already scarred with cuts and burns from practise and training back home. They were boys who fought and girls who hunted. Their faces were determined and their eyes full of anger or confidence. He looked back at himself.

He was thin because he was malnourished. His skin was so white because he spent his days inside, reading or investigating. He was tall given his limited diet, but he certainly wasn't strong. His eyes, regardless of colour, were… blank, like they were only there because it was the social convention for people to have pupils and irises on the front of their face. He answered without really thinking about it.

"I'm not even sure I'm looking at a human." Mycroft's hand lifted from his shoulder, and for a few moments Sherlock's words hung alone.

"Then you'll probably do well," he eventually answered.

"Any parting advice?" Sherlock asked.

"It's going to be okay." Mycroft moved forwards awkwardly, but recoiled. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Do you know why?" Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply when his brother suddenly lunged forwards, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

Sherlock frowned. This was definitely not normal- he couldn't remember Mycroft ever hugging him. He couldn't remember Mycroft had ever hugging _anybody_. He was almost reassured when his brother began to hiss quick words in his ear, lips barely moving.

"They can't hurt you in there, Sherlock. They've already done the worst they can. Remember that. You're going to be freer than you've ever been before in your life."

He pulled back, and Sherlock realised that seventeen years on, he still didn't really know who his brother was.

"I know why, Mycroft," Sherlock announced for the benefit of any hidden cameras. "I can fight."

"That isn't what I was going to say. You're an intelligent man-" Mycroft began.

"I know _that_."

"Then you must know that your 'fighting' resembles a deranged puppet wafting flies." Sherlock bristled a little.

"Well, I've hardly got enough time to learn."

"My point exactly. So don't fight: think. It might be all you're good for, but you really are rather good at it."

"Thank you, Mycroft." Mycroft knew a dismissal when he saw one. He nodded, and headed for the door.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he called as he left. Sherlock didn't reply and Mycroft didn't look back.

* * *

><p>Greg was angry that they made his grandmother come out. She was old, and frail, and he didn't understand why they couldn't have just gone to her. The way her face lit up as she entered the goodbye room and took in the kind of luxury she'd never seen before nearly made it worth it. But the effect was spoiled when she sank down in the chair, breathing too heavily for the few steps she had walked.<p>

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. She held out her arms and he went to her, forgetting that he was seventeen, forgetting that he was independent and nearly an adult. He should be thinking about how to appear to the cameras to best gain sponsorship or making clever plans, but it didn't even cross his mind. He let his brain shut off for a few minutes and lost himself in the familiarity. Neither of them cried even though both of them wanted to, and would later on.

"While I'm gone, Gran-" he eventually began. She looked at him, eyes wide.

"Why are you worrying about me? You need to think about yourself."

"No, I don't. Listen, Gran, I know some people who might be able to help you out. I work with a woman named Vivian- she's nice, and pretty well off. If she hears I've been chosen and turns up to say goodbye, I'll ask her to share some food with you. She won't mind, honest."

"Gregory Lestrade, why are you wasting your time like this?" his grandmother said sternly. "I'll be fine. I took care of myself for long enough before you came along."

"But that was then," he said cautiously, "this is now. Gran… you must know how much weaker you are."

"I'm fine!" she insisted. "I can get my own food and money, don't you worry. I'll take in laundry or darning or something. Concentrate on yourself. I'll be fine for a few months until you come back."

"But what if-" he took a deep breath. "What if I don't come back?"

"Don't say that, Greg. Don't even think it."

"But what would you do, Gran?"

"Stop it!"

"No, we need to talk about this! What if this isn't just for a few months? What if this is for forever?" His grandmother rested her head in her hands. She sighed, sounding more defeated than Greg had ever heard before. The silence was damning as she looked up.

"Look… Greg," she began. "Why don't we both stop lying to each other?"

"Okay," he agreed. "That seems like a good idea."

"You first," she said. He nodded. The words stuck in his throat, and he had to work hard to get them out.

"I might not make it out alive. I probably won't come back." It was true. What chance did a District 6 boy, underfed and used to a quiet, sedentary lifestyle have?

"And I'm probably not going to be here for you to come back to," his grandmother said evenly. It was the first time she'd ever fully acknowledged her ill health. Usually she gave excuses, lies, anything to deny the fact that she was weakening. Her admission told him more than other words ever could: she didn't think he could survive either.

"That solves that, then. We'll both be dead within a few months and we won't have to worry." He said, matter-of-factly. It really, really wasn't funny, but Greg found himself smiling all the same.

"Don't joke about this!" Mabel scolded, but he could see her trying not to giggle.

"No more cleaning," he coaxed. She gave in and started to chuckle.

"No more cleaning," she agreed.

"And I won't have to work at that stupid office anymore."

"And I won't have to cook anymore."

"I won't have to go to school."

"And neither of us will have to watch the Games again," she finished. He nodded vigorously.

"I could get used to this death thing," he grinned. She smiled, but it soon faded.

"I love you," she told him, looking into his eyes, "so much."

"I love you too," he told her. "Thank you. For everything."

"No, Greg. Thank you." She held him for a few minutes, and he wondered what would happen if he just stayed there. If he just refused to move. But eventually, a Peacekeeper strode in and ordered her away. She obeyed.

"For the record, I'm not counting you out," she insisted as he pulled away. "I never would."

"I know," he said. "Goodbye, Gran."

"Goodbye, Greg." The Peacekeeper glared at his grandmother as she hugged him again, tapping his watch. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulder.

"C'mon, you, time to leave." Greg closed his eyes. He opened them, smiling a little, when he heard a familiar indignant cry.

"Get your hands _off _me! That is no way to treat a lady!" Greg watched his grandmother as she left. Despite her age, Mabel held her head high as she walked away. She didn't lean on her cane anywhere near as much as he knew she wanted to.

An eighty year old woman was a strange person to draw inspiration from, but it worked for him. Greg raised his head to look the Peacekeeper in the eye and, his face straight and voice steady, asked "so, can we go now?"

* * *

><p>Harry was late. John couldn't sit down as he waited, pacing backwards and forwards. He only had sixty minutes of visiting time, and they were precious. Nearly thirty-five had passed by the time she arrived.<p>

"Where were you?" he demanded, not bothering to try and stay calm. Harry's eyes widened.

"Why are you shouting?" she asked.

"You're late!"

"They only just let me go," she whimpered. "They said they were worried I was a danger to you. They wanted to send a Peacekeeper in with me."

"Right," he said flatly.

"John? John, look at me."

"I am."

"No, properly. In the eyes." He went to glare at her, but stopped when he saw the sorrow and guilt on her face.

This could be their last meeting. This was not how this was supposed to go. He made a conscious effort to swallow his anger. John looked at his sister properly, who seemed so out of place in this opulent room. He winced a little when he noticed her arms. She had opened deep red ravines on her skin when he was chosen, every part of her screaming.

"Does it hurt?" he asked gently.

"My heart? Every single day. My arms? Not really." Pain tugged at John's chest, but he ignored it.

"Are you sure? They look pretty bad."

"You should see the guy who held me back."

"You hurt him? Harry, don't you know how dangerous that is?" Attacking a Peacekeeper was a serious offence. People had been executed for less.

"They judged that I wasn't in a suitable state of mind. I didn't know what I was doing, apparently. Considering the circumstances."

"And did you know what you were doing?"

"I don't even know what I'm doing now." He wasn't in the mood for her riddles or her melancholy. The frustration was bubbling back to the surface and it was hard to push back. He didn't want to be angry at somebody so broken- but damnit, he was only human.

"You have to stop this," he urged her. "I won't be able to look after you when I'm in the arena."

"I don't need looking after." John decided not to argue.

"Well, you're going to have to stop drinking."

"No," she replied immediately.

"Just for a while if nothing else."

"No."

"Harry-"

"No, John, and I mean it. If anything, I plan to drink more. A lot more." That was it, then. John turned away from her in disgust.

"Why do I bother?" he muttered.

"You don't understand."

"What don't I understand? You forget that you're not the only one who lost their mother, Harry. You aren't the only one who lost their father. You lost Clara, sure, but I lost you!"

"I'm right here," she rasped.

"Really? How can you tell? Because you sure as hell aren't my sister anymore!"

"No. No, I am," Harry said, voice rising, sounding more sure of herself than she had in months. "I might be many things- I might _not _be many things- but I'm still your sister, John. That will never change. It doesn't matter how much I drink. It doesn't matter how much I let you down. No matter how much you might want to, you can't change the fact that you're my brother." Harry reached out a tentative hand. "My little brother." John let her touch his cheek. It seemed to leech some of the bitterness from him, like venom from a wound. His anger drained away.

"I'm sorry," he stated quietly.

"Me too." John didn't know what she was apologising for, and he didn't want to ask. He didn't want to have it reconfirmed that the drinking wasn't stopping any time soon.

"I don't think I've ever heard you sound like that," she commented.

"Sorry," he immediately said.

"Don't be. It was… good. Like hearing the real you for a change. You know, I'm not as fragile as you think." His face must have betrayed thoughts his mouth would not, because she continued. "No, seriously. I know that I drink too much and do too little- but I'm still here. I've lost three of the people who meant everything in the world to me, and there's a chance I'm going to lose the fourth and final. But I'll live. Do you get what I'm saying? If I was going to give up, I would have done it a long time ago."

_If this isn't giving up, then what is? _a traitorous part of John thought. But he knew what she meant. On the most basic level, Harry was still going. She was still breathing, her heart still beating. She would stay that way. Her unspoken words were louder than their dialogue: _I'm not going to die. You might. Focus on yourself._

"Do you think I can do it?" he asked. "Do you think I can make it out?" Harry didn't reply, and his anxiety rose. He babbled, trying to fill in the gaps. "I mean, with what happened to our parents and then the orphanage and helping out with the Healers and… I've seen enough death, haven't I? Enough to know how to avoid it?"

"Oh, you could stay alive. I don't doubt that. But can you kill?" He didn't have an answer for her. He was saved from trying to find one by a Peacekeeper's intrusion. John snuck a quick look at their face to check for damage, but this was a different man. He stood in the doorway, looking at Harry warily.

"Ready to leave?" he asked. John wanted to protest, but Harry spoke before he could.

"Almost. Could we have just one more minute?" The man nodded, and left them alone. Turning back to John, Harry's hands flicked up to her head.

"Here." Her hair suddenly cascaded down, framing her face in loose blond curls. She held out a strip of patterned cloth. "It's not much, but it was mother's. I wear it every day. You can have it, if you want. As your token."

His token. Right. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He let Harry tie the strip of cloth around his arm and then embraced her. She was a few inches shorter than he was, tucking her head against his chest. She shook slightly in his arms. He did in no way feel like the younger sibling.

"Will you be okay?" he found himself asking her.

"No. But I'll live." She drew back. "You do the same. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed. And then the door was opening and the Peacekeeper was back and footsteps were clattering and words were being said and his heart ached more than ever as the door closed on Harry. John shut his eyes. He lifted the cloth to his nose and inhaled, mother and sister and _family _wrapping around him and masking the loneliness. Harry's words echoed around his head.

_I'll live. You do the same._

He would try his hardest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: I've realised two things about this story. One, the chapters are going to be pretty big. Two, there are going to be a lot of chapters. Oops.  
>Please bear with me and keep readingreviewing. I love you all very much!**

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><p>John couldn't remember his escort's name. It was a ridiculous thing to be concerned about, but it worried him all the same. He didn't need any more help in appearing stupid. He tried to surreptitiously read the name badge stuck onto the man's sparkling tunic, but to no avail. John turned instead to stare out the train window, but found himself distracted by the tiny circles of light thrown off by all the sequins. Sequins… sequins, sparkle, glitter- the cogs slowly clunked into place. Glamor! His name was glamor. The man who had been grudgingly assigned to District Twelve. He looked so bored that John wondered if he was still awake.<p>

"Glamor?" John asked tentatively. Glamor grunted. "What happens now? What do we do?"

"Whatever you want." Glamor waved his arm around vaguely. "Everything's at your disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour." John nodded, and stood up from the plush seat. He smiled an apologetic goodbye at Molly, before retreating to the solitude of his own compartment. He felt guilty for leaving her, but he wanted to be by himself.

He had meant to take this time to consider strategies or at least let himself think things through, but he found his feelings locked, unreachable. He was holding together for now, so he decided not to push it. Instead he wandered around the room, feeling the floor sway under his feet and trying out the various Capitol gadgets. The shower was magical. He ended up sat on the cold tiles, leaning back against the wall and letting water rain down on him. He spent a long time pressing button after button, feeling the spray switch from ice cold to scalding in seconds. It was soothing in a numbing kind of way.

John was pulling on his shoes when Glamor appeared and gestured wordlessly, not looking up from his clipboard. Obediently, he followed the man to the dining room. Molly sat with her back to the door, but when John entered she twisted around to smile at him. John took a seat next to her, letting himself be reassured by the familiar face.

"Is it just us?" Molly asked as Glamor took a seat near the end of the table, far away from them.

"Yeah. In most places, it's the tributes, the escort and the previous victors. But as your district doesn't have any..."

"We had one!" Molly exclaimed. "Liva. From the fifty-ninth Games?" Glamor snorted, and looked away. Liva had died ten years ago, when John was too young to really comprehend the significance. She remained District 12's only victor- a severe alcoholic who died of liver damage at twenty-two. She had been a sad, damaged woman. She didn't even register for Glamor.

"So who's going to control our sponsorship in the arena?" John asked. He'd never really given it any thought- District 12 could rarely afford to sponsor anybody, so it made little difference.

"That'll be me," Glamor sighed heavily. He seemed relieved when the first course arrived and they didn't have to try and converse anymore. John didn't really notice- he was in a different world. He had never tasted anything like this- cheese and chocolate and fruit. At first it was pure bliss, course after course of rich, delicious food filling his stomach for what felt like the first time. It was only when he reached for another bread roll and caught a glimpse of the strip of rag tied around his wrist that his stomach flipped.

From then on, every bite was laced with the bitter taste of guilt. How many children could a meal like this have fed? For how long? John didn't want to think about the answers. He chewed and swallowed every morsel anyway, driven by the overwhelming compulsion to eat everything in sight. It was a side effect of starvation he knew only too well.

After the meal, the three of them trudged into another compartment to watch the summary of the reapings. John remained silent, but drummed his fingers against his leg in anxiety. Images of armies swarmed his brain- burly eighteen year olds, women and men with years of food and fighting under their belts. What were him and Molly next to them? He glimpsed their reflection in the television screen. Insipid, scrawny. Pathetic.

District One didn't fail to disappoint- an eighteen year old woman, a sixteen year old boy. Names that didn't stick in John's head. Sleek black hair on both, looks of determination and… amusement? He was wary already.

Two presented an enormous male tribute, taller than anybody John had ever seen before. He didn't even seem _real_. He towered over the stocky female tribute. Three's pair were forgettable in comparison.

The youngest tribute came from District 4- a boy, only twelve years old. The girl was sixteen. They were both blonde and they both looked terrified. John had heard that Four trained their children for the Games, but nothing would convince him that the two he saw on screen were anymore prepared for this than he was.

John gave up trying to keep track after that. It was only when the male tribute for District Eight stepped up that John's attention was grabbed. He didn't quite know why. Maybe it was the long coat, made of a material John didn't recognise, or the striking dark hair on pale skin. Whatever this tribute was, he was something else.

He watched himself and Molly be called, and then the broadcast was over. He frowned. Twenty-four tributes and he'd already forgotten most. There had been the sly looking pair from One… the huge boy from two… the young boy from Four and a girl of only thirteen from Nine. And of course, the boy from Eight. Was 'boy' the right word? John had no idea how to refer to him. He remembered reading that the tribute was seventeen years old, but something about him made him seem much older. John wished that he'd remembered the name instead.

He dismissed himself without being told to and padded quietly back to his temporary refuge. He felt sick from the meal and from the recap, but he had to try and sleep if nothing else. Tomorrow would be a big day, and he needed every advantage he could get.

* * *

><p>"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Karyn fussed. "It's going to be a very busy day."<p>

"I know."

"Not even a bit of fruit?" she tried.

"Digesting slows me down." The escort seemed to give up, switching her attention to the female tribute's hair. Sherlock was glad. Serra seemed to be much better at putting up with unwanted attention than he was.

They'd be at the Capitol soon, judging by his calculations. He hadn't slept, but he hadn't tried. Sleep had seemed a waste of time. There were so many things he'd never seen before, so many mechanisms he had yet to understand. How many chances would a person like him get to investigate a train like this? He hadn't even watched the reapings- he had excused himself under the guise of illness and explored all kinds of exciting places instead.

They began to slow down as they approached the station. Trying to read the people he saw flick past was incredible. They were so unlike anybody he'd seen before, all bright colours and harsh angles. He caught occasional glimpses of understanding- _recently married, journalist, three cats- _but they were fleeting and strangely reminiscent of groping for his coat in the dark. The train slid to a smooth halt and Sherlock was shepherded out into the hallway where Serra and their team stood waiting. He stiffened when he saw the mass of people outside. Clutching cameras and microphones, they banged on the glass, crowded at the door, making wild gestures and mouthing words he couldn't read.

Karyn's hand came down on his shoulder firmly. "Oh sweetheart, don't worry about them. They only want to love you!"

"I can't imagine a worse thing." The idea of a lamb walking into a lion's den came to mind. She tittered at him, and gave him a not all-that-gentle nudge.

"Off you pop!"

"No," he said flatly.

"Go on dear, out you go."

"No, I don't see that happening."

"Oh, for-," Karyn cut herself off, breathing out heavily through pursed lips.

"Enough." Sherlock's mentor, a lean and quiet man named Rook, had materialised out of nowhere. He grabbed something off of a nearby coat stand and threw it to him. "Here. Hide your face if it's going to bother you that much." Sherlock examined the strange hat- he recognised the material as twill, but he didn't understand why it had to have two flaps. All the same, he pulled it on and strode out into the crowds, head down.

The pestering didn't end there. They fawned over him in the Remake Centre. He was keen to observe them, but after exactly forty-eight seconds he decided it wasn't worth it and zoned out. He thought of other, more interesting things as they dragged combs through his hair, smothered him in sweet smelling lotions and attacked his eyebrows with tweezers. It could have been five minutes or five hours when a call of his name brought him back to the surface.

"We're done!" one of the women chirruped. "Now off the table and we'll get your stylist in!" Sherlock pulled at the white sheet they'd given him, cloaking his body in it and sitting up to wait. His s_tylist. _How trivial.

He supposed District Eight was lucky, in a way. With a main export was fabric, costumes were easy to create and rarely _that_ humiliating. The only district stylists preferred to Eight was One, where they could drip their tributes in diamonds and glitter. The least favoured district certainly seemed to be Twelve. Some vindictive part of him smirked at memories of previous years. If tributes from District 12 were unlucky, they tended to end up naked, covered in coal dust.

* * *

><p>"As it was such a hit before, we'd planned to have you naked, covered in coal dust."<p>

John heard Molly let out a kind of squeak by his side, but hung onto hope. Past tense was always a good sign with this kind of thing. "Are you still doing that?"

"No," the stylist sighed heavily. He sounded as if somebody had stamped on his puppy. "There were complaints from the cleaners, so we've been advised to take a different route." John offered a silent thank you to every single cleaner involved.

"What are we wearing instead?" Molly asked.

"Oh, some boring old doctored miner's outfits. But I'm sure you'll make them work," the man said doubtfully.

A few hours later, John found himself climbing onto a plain black chariot. He didn't want to watch the other districts dazzle and shine, so he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. But he couldn't block his ears, and his heart sunk with each fresh round of applause. What slight hopes he'd held of ever returning home were dwindling.

"Hey, could you give me a hand?" he heard Molly ask. He turned around to help her onto the chariot, and stopped dead. She smiled weakly when she saw his face.

"I know, right? It's very… pretty." The dress was gold and tiny, skating the tops of her thighs. "They put a lot of effort in. It kept falling down at first. They had to use a special kind of glue, but they got it to stick eventually." They had somehow made the material press tightly against her, and it created an odd effect. The dress had been designed to cling to breasts and hips that Molly just didn't have. On a healthy woman, it might have been sexy. On her, it enunciated collarbones and shoulder blades.

They had paired it with a miner's hat, tilted at an angle that John supposed was supposed to be jaunty or playful. The dress, the makeup, the stilettos, the nail varnish, they all did the same thing. Despite the stylists' effort, Molly's entire outfit did nothing but reinforce who she was: a scared sixteen year old girl. A child.

"Twelve? Twelve, you need to go now!" a frantic voice came. The chariot jerked into motion, and John gripped at the side to balance himself. Steadied, he straightened up and stared ahead. What did he do with his face? Did he look happy? Sad? He somehow doubted he could pull of fierce and intimidating. The crowd were too loud and he couldn't think straight and he ended up doing some strange weak half-smile, still trying to concentrate on not wobbling or being sick or falling off the chariot. He and Molly suddenly filled the huge television screen, and he was floored by how hideously pitiful they looked. He jerked violently as the chariot hit a rock, and as he tried to hang on Harry's words mocked him. John did not want to break his promise.

The blonde boy on the television stopped smiling. His face flickered. Catching sight of himself made John grit his teeth. He was not about to cry in front of the whole of Panem. He dug his nails into the flesh of his palm and looked straight ahead. The boy on the monitor held it together- back straight, eyes steely, control regained. The camera changed targets, but John didn't relax. The chariot was nearing its destination and the crowd was quietening down, but no relief came. He couldn't shake the feeling- no, the knowledge- that he just couldn't do this. He couldn't.

_I'll live. You do the same._

John wanted to go home.

* * *

><p>Greg felt a little overwhelmed. Floor Six of the training centre seemed to stretch before him, impossibly large. Was all of this really just for him and Sherry?<p>

His room was filled with hundreds of unusual and exciting things, but all Greg felt was relief at being off the train. Whenever he shut his eyes, images of his father slammed into his vision. Greg had been eleven when he died- young enough to need him and old enough to know it. The train crash could probably have been prevented with better safety equipment, but there was no use dwelling on it. This rationality, whilst helpful, didn't stop his heart from racing or his hands from shaking.

Greg accepted the wine at dinner in the hopes it would calm his anxiety. It didn't, and he didn't like the taste, but he drunk it anyway so that he didn't appear rude. For a brief moment, he wondered _why _he was trying to be polite when he might not even be alive in a week's time. And it was all for the Capitol's entertainment. What could he possibly owe these people?

Deep guilt and even more anxiety tore through him. What was he doing, thinking like that? It could be considered treason! The Capitol did not let traitors off lightly- punishment usually involved those who the criminal loved the most. His mind flashed to his grandmother. They had so many expensive things here- what if they could hear thoughts? He was sure they couldn't, but the paranoia didn't fade and for the rest of the meal he made a conscious effort to only think nice things.

After they had eaten, they watched the replay of the opening ceremony. Greg watched District One's entrance and proceeded to forget everybody else's. It was quite difficult not to when the voluptuous woman stood on the chariot had opted (yes, opted, the announcer specified) to go completely nude. The slightly rat-faced boy by her side was covered by a glitzy toga-style item, for which Greg was more slightly glad.

He spent another hour or so with Sherry, but they had little in common and he wasn't offended when she left to go to bed early. He tried doing the same, but quickly realised that sleep wouldn't come easily. Instead he sat at the window, duvet wrapped around himself. In the distances, lights on buildings and cars flickered on and off, the world constantly moving.

He looked up to the sky, and found he could just about make out the stars. He sat up long into the night, gazing up into the darkness. It offered him a strange form of reassurance. The stars were much dimmer here than they were at home, but it was still the same sky. This was the same universe, even if it didn't feel that way.

* * *

><p>Molly was already at the table when John appeared. "Good morning," she greeted him.<p>

"Morning," he muttered, pulling back a chair. He looked exhausted. Molly wondered if he'd slept at all. A pang of guilt ripped at her. Even in the hardest times, Molly had never had any problems sleeping. Last night had been no different. She felt awful admitting it. It felt like it was a sign that she didn't love her family enough, that she was rotten inside.

Nobody seemed to be in much of a mood to talk. She tried to start a conversation a few times, but John was unresponsive and Glamor looked in pain whenever he was required to answer. She gave up and focused on systematically buttering rolls and eating them, not really tasting the food as it slid down her throat. She couldn't help but remember the footage of the other reapings. There had been so many boys and girls and women and men- most were heavier than she was, with more muscle and brainpower and experience.

When John met her eye, she still smiled enthusiastically. Within hours of being chosen, she had quietly accepted that she wouldn't be returning to District 12- so what was the point in making everybody miserable about it? She tried to focus on the good things. For instance, today they had let wear a tunic and leggings. Whilst the training tunic was a bit too tight for her liking, she felt much more comfortable than she had at the opening ceremony. They had let her keep the gold dress. She had crammed it down behind a chest of drawers to get it out of her sight. It hadn't worked. She still knew it was there, venom radiating out.

"Be ready for ten," Glamor announced as he finished his meal. He wandered off, leaving the two of them alone.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked gently. John looked up, his eyes tired.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Well, not totally fine, I guess. I'm quite nervous about today but it can't go that badly, can it? I mean, I'm sure the people will be nice. Don't you think?"

"Does it matter?" John snapped. Molly jumped a little, and he sighed. "No, I'm sorry, Molls. That isn't fair. I'm sure you're right- it'll be okay."

"What's wrong, John?" she asked, concerned. "I won't tell Glamor, promise."

"Glamor wouldn't care if I told him I'd just given birth," John pointed out. Molly laughed out loud, and it made John smile. She felt good about that.

"No, it's okay, honestly. Just… lots of things to think about. People back home. People here." He broke off. "Some of those tributes looked terrifying. Did you see the guy from Two?"

"The really tall one?"

"Yeah, him."

"Maybe he'll be nice too?" Molly volunteered. John snorted.

"We'd better hope so."

"You sound like you've given up," she frowned.

"Maybe I have." Molly remembered meeting John. She had only been twelve, when somebody being a whole year older than her made a big impact. He seemed to know everything. As the years passed and they trained together, she learned more about him. It had seemed like he could take on anything and come out the other side, smiling and hopeful. He was an orphan who cared for his alcoholic sister- but he could still always find time to give Molly any help she needed. Molly thought of him a little like the brother she'd never had.

"That's not the John Watson I know," she said.

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson you…" John trailed off. He twiddled with an old strip of fabric he had tied around his wrist. Even Molly could appreciate that he wanted to be left alone, so she excused herself and left him sat at the table.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when there was a loud knock on her door.

Ready?" Glamor asked. At least, Molly _thought_ it was a question. Glamor seemed incapable of mastering more than one tone of voice.

"I'll be there in a second!" she called back sunnily. Molly's fingers were clumsy as she knotted her laces, conscious that she was holding everybody up. She finished and closed her eyes for a few seconds. She took a deep breath, then another. _It'll be okay_, she told herself. _It'll be okay._

"Okay, I'm ready." She opened her eyes. It was time to meet the other tributes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Just to clarify- for settings/details etc, I'm going by the Hunger Games book canon, not the film. A****nd I'm just going to stop apologising for the word count now; these things get longer with each update!**

**Thank you so much to anybody who reviews/adds this to their favourites/alerts. You're amazing people.  
><strong>

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><p>"This is your number. You'll wear it throughout training," the man explained. "It's just a nice little bit of District pride."<p>

_District Six. Specialisation: transport. Size: very large. Main exports: trains, hovercrafts, and Morphling addiction. _Greg had to wonder exactly where pride entered into things. All the same, he patiently let the man pin the number to his t-shirt, glancing around at the other tributes. There weren't many; he and Sherry were among the first to arrive.

There were countless different stations scattered around, but nobody was trying anything out yet. The few that were gathered stood awkwardly, like they weren't quite sure what they were doing. Greg could empathise. He was a little taken aback when he saw that the male tributes from Ten and Four were actually speaking, enthusing about the food in the Capitol. Was he expected to talk to these people? To get to know them, knowing that they would all die? _No, don't think like that._

They were both young, though, the boys from Ten and Four. There were usually a lot of seventeen and eighteen year olds in the Games, so maybe the younger ones always tended to stick together. It was never really showed on screen, but behind the scenes footage rarely was. Greg remained where he was and was grateful when the other districts began to trail in, tagging along behind their escorts.

But there was no denying that people were… chatting. At first it was sparse and forced, but by the time the final District arrived a few people were even laughing, like they were only here to make friends and have fun. Greg frowned. Making friends was not one of his strong points, and he was relatively certain there wouldn't be a stall devoted to it.

* * *

><p>"Enjoy training," Glamor told John and Molly listlessly. "Try something new."<p>

"Like what?" Molly asked.

"I didn't mean you," he dismissed. "Stick to pretty camouflage or something, we don't want you to break." John tried not to scowl as his mentor turned to him.

"You, you're not quite so… brittle. Look around the different stations. Maybe hand-to-hand combat." John nodded once to indicate that he understood.

"Have fun," Glamor grunted, already walking away.

"Lovely as always," John muttered under his breath. He was starting to grow sick of Glamor. _This is the man in charge of keeping me alive, _he thought to himself. John wouldn't trust him to take care of a goldfish.

"Are we early?" Molly whispered as they walked in. There were only four tributes with numbers pinned to their backs, with about four more waiting to be labelled.

"Looks like it."

"Glamor must have been eager."

John snorted. Eagerness was not a trait John could easily attribute to his escort.

"What if we get hurt?" Molly asked, taking in some of the stations- knife-work, shooting, archery.

"We know how to heal," John reminded her."Besides, you'll be fine, I promise. Let's just go and get numbered." Molly followed him over to the man over at the front, but they were waved away.

"There's a queue, for God's sake. Go talk to the others and wait your turn." Molly flushed rosy pink and babbled her apologies. John hesitated. He didn't want to think about the others- even the small crowd seemed intimidating. He wondered if he should stay with Molly, or talk to somebody else, or remain solitary and try to hang on to any iota of mystery he still held.

He forced himself to quickly run his eyes over the people gathered, but stopped dead when he found an intense pair already staring at him. He didn't have to look at the number to know that this was the man (yes, definitely man) from District Eight. John smiled uneasily and nodded a half-greeting, opting to stand a few feet away from him and the other tributes.

"Six or Twelve?" The tribute's voice was deep and smooth, and John jolted at the sudden question. He hadn't really thought anybody would pay him any attention. He responded in a mature and intelligent manner by blinking repeatedly.

"Excuse me?" he asked, turning around to face his questioner.

"Are you from District Six or Twelve?" Stupidly, John reached up to feel his back. No, he hadn't imagined it. The man in charge of numbering them was still busy, and John remained unlabelled.

"Twelve," John said cautiously. The man nodded.

"I suspected so."

"You're Eight, right?"

"How could you tell?" he asked curiously. John gave an awkward laugh.

"I remembered you from the reapings."

"Oh," the man said, unimpressed.

"What?" John frowned. "Isn't that how you knew me?"

"I didn't watch the reapings."

"The opening ceremony, then."

"I didn't even look up from the chariot."

"Well, you must have. That's the only way you could remember my district number."

"I didn't remember. It was obvious."

"What?" John asked incredulously. "That's… you're insane. We've never met before."

"So?"

"I don't even know your name!" John had no idea quite why he was letting this tribute get under his skin so much. He also had no idea why he waited patiently for the man to weigh things up and deliver his reply.

"I know you lost both of your parents at a fairly young age. I also know that you're training to be a healer, alongside the female tribute you came with. I know that you've got a sister who you're concerned about, but you won't mention her in any interviews- possibly because she's an alcoholic; more likely because you're ashamed of her. And I know that your mentor thinks you have issues with repressed anger which may enable you to win these Games- quite correctly, I suspect. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and yes, District Eight."

There was an insane, upside-down moment in which every other person in the room vanished. John stared.

"How… could you possibly know that?"

"I didn't know- I saw. Lack of body fat and short height says one of the poorer districts. The conversation as you entered the room said trained in healing. Obvious. Your familiarity with the girl and the use of 'we' said trained together. You aren't tanned, so that rules out outdoors centred districts like Eleven. The fact that you _require _knowledge of healing states you work somewhere with a significant frequency of accidents or injuries. Poorer district, no work in the sunshine, frequent accidents- Twelve or Six."

John swallowed. "You said I was angry."

"You're an orphan, picked for the Games from the poorest District in Panem; of course you're angry. But you clench your fists when you come across something you don't like, like your escort's brush-off or the rudeness when it came to numbering. Or when I spoke, for that matter. That says anger. You bite your lip or mutter instead of displaying that aggression further, which says repression. Your escort advised you attempt hand-to-hand combat- that's not something you suggest of somebody with no drive or ferocity. He's fully aware of it."

The man took only the briefest of breaths before continuing. "Then there's your family. Lack of dependence on your escort suggests no parents, lack of obvious anger or rejection indicates you've gotten used to it. Orphaned young, then. Your token can't have been given to you by your parents and most men wouldn't own patterned material like that. A girlfriend would have given something more personal and a friend something less. Your alcoholic sister is the most likely explanation."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. The rips in the material like that indicate lack of care- don't look at me like that, I've spent my life dealing with fabric. Nail marks - every night, she takes it out to go to bed but she's too drunk to untie it properly. She could just be careless, but she's poor- she wouldn't treat her few possessions like that. Not sober, at least. You're wearing it pushed up under your sleeve because you don't want people asking about it because you don't want to talk about her- but if that was the only factor here, you wouldn't wear it at all. No, you're feeling guilty- why? Because you're ashamed of her, and you're ashamed of that shame. And you were right."

"I was right? About what?"

"I'm almost certainly not entirely sane."

The final tributes had arrived, but John still wasn't paying any attention.

"That was… amazing," he said slowly.

"You think so?" he asked.

"It was… extraordinary. Quite extraordinary," John breathed.

"That's not what people normally say,"

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'," the man said. He looked at John and smiled, and John decided to go ahead and like Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>"I think," Sherlock muttered, "we have a shadow."<p>

John looked up from the knot he was attempting to tie, and Sherlock pointed to the girl lurking at the edge of the station. She blushed and grabbed a length of rope, focusing all of her attention on it.

"Oh, that's just Molly. I know her from home."

"Interesting," Sherlock said, turning back to the rope.

"What's interesting?"

"You call your district 'home'."

"Well, don't you?"

"Not even slightly."

"I- you can come over if you want, Molly," John said, turning towards her. She had spent the length of their conversation staring at Sherlock, a look in her eyes that John had never seen before.

"H-hi," she stammered at Sherlock, offering a hopeful smile. "My name's Molly."

"Your knot is awful, Molly," he greeted her. "Your opponent will escape that in less than two seconds, and have a spear lodged through your eye socket within three."

"Um… thank you?" Molly looked dazed. Sherlock pushed past and left her behind.

"What the hell was that?" John asked, trotting after him.

"Bored. Let's try archery."

"Sherlock, you were horrible to Molly."

"Was I?" Sherlock asked, not sounding overly concerned as he selected a bow.

"Yes! You should apologise."

"So I'm to say sorry and prepare to shoot her through the heart in a few days? It all seems rather backwards to me, so forgive me if I'm not following the usual social protocol at present."

The sensible thing, John decided, would be to back the hell away. He would move on to a separate station alone, and avoid whatever torture Sherlock would doubtlessly bring on himself. John would just say something like 'I don't like archery, I'll see you later' and walk away. Yes, that would work. But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a sigh of "definitely not entirely sane". Sherlock smiled again, almost approvingly. John had to try very hard to ignore the flush of pride that brought.

Molly had tailed them around most of the hall for the rest of the morning. The three of them were the last out of the training hall at lunchtime: John and Sherlock too engrossed in the shooting station (and Molly too engrossed in Sherlock) to notice the others leaving. It was unusual to see guns in the Hunger Games- it was felt that they removed the passion from things. Death by gunfire was too mechanical and removed for most audiences to really enjoy.

"Are tributes supposed to bond during training?" John asked as they took their places in the queue. He had assumed that most would be sat alone, but nearly everybody had clumped off into twos and threes. It wasn't according to district, either- throughout the hall, tributes who had never met before were getting to know each other.

"It seems unlikely," Sherlock answered. "Why?"

"A lot of people are sat together, that's all."

"I suppose some people prefer that- although I can't begin to imagine why." That was something of a conversation killer, and they didn't speak again. John went to take a seat in the corner, but met Sherlock's eyes and stopped mid-step for some inexplicable reason.

"Sit here," Sherlock said- and whilst it wasn't a question, it almost felt like one.

"I thought you didn't like to sit with people."

"You aren't people," Sherlock stated. "Sit." And John was sure that that was an insult, but it didn't feel that way. So he sat down, and whilst they remained in silence, it was a comfortable one.

* * *

><p>Sherlock put a lot of thought into what John had said about the tributes over the next few days. It really was most unusual. During training, the children circled the stations in groups, offering each other tips and advice, and giggling together when they got it wrong. It was true that a few stuck alone, but so many did not that the trainers actually seemed uneasy about it. Sherlock saw one completely stop what he was doing to stare when one girl mastered a particularly difficult throw in hand-to-hand and her 'opponent' hugged her in celebration.<p>

Whilst the training was never televised, it had always been clear to Sherlock that there was no companionship or affection between the tributes. It made sense, after all- friendships with people you were planning to kill did not. Sherlock had intended to avoid them at all costs.

It was the third day of training- the day they had their private sessions with the Gamemakers. At lunchtime, a pretty, smiling girl named Sarah asked John to sit with her and John agreed straight away. Sherlock declined before John had even finished asking. It proved pointless anyway- the usual quiet conversation was completely absent, and the room was silent except for the rhythmic clink of forks and knives on plates. He sat alone, glanced over at John every few minutes, and wondered why the girl from District 12 wouldn't stop staring at him.

One by one, the tributes were called for their sessions, and nobody came back afterwards. Sherlock could tell what most of the tributes were planning to do based on the stations they had (and hadn't) spent their time at, but he couldn't guess the scores they would receive- he knew vague figures, but it was all too subjective to be definite.

"Kate Long," a voice commanded, and the slightly trembling District Seven girl rose. Sherlock hadn't really put much thought into what to do in his own session. He wasn't worried. He had been keeping Mycroft's words alive in his memory; feeding them and watching them grow. He had come to realise that he didn't even have to wait until he was in the arena- they had already done the worst they could. He was free _now_.

He almost pitied the twenty-three nervous wrecks he'd be up against- not because he was stronger or more likely to win, but because there wasn't a single part of him that was concerned about his score. If he walked out of that room with a one, or a zero- or hell, in handcuffs- then it wouldn't make a single ounce of difference. He knew the truth. He knew that he could do anything he wanted; his final destination fixed and inevitable.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock didn't rush. He locked eyes with John seconds before he disappeared into the gymnasium, just in time to see him mouth the words 'good luck'. The small act of kindness threw Sherlock more than he cared to admit.

The Gamemakers sat in front of him, ceremonious as tombs. He had been watching them on and off throughout the training period, and now he took them in fully. He turned his back and felt their stares cut into him as he walked slowly around the room, examining the various weapons and equipment laid out. _Boring, requires more experience, dull, conventional, boring, dull, tedious._

"You may begin," one of the women declared after a few minutes, as though to prompt him. He scowled. He did not appreciate being rushed, or interrupted. He turned back to the weapons, hyper-aware of the tittering behind him. He had narrowed it down to five or so possibilities, and began to reach for a knife before pulling his hand back. _No, that's not quite right._

"In your own time," the Head Gamemaker finally drawled. The rest of them laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd heard all year. Sherlock had never been very good at coping with being mocked, and the tumultuous combination of shame and anger and just not giving a fuck made something click inside of him. He looked at the Gamemaker on the far right, and his lips curved upwards in a way best described as 'dangerous'.

"Your wife knows you're having an affair," he offered casually. The man spat his wine across the table. A few people giggled nervously, but they were soon silenced by the others.

"Please begin your session, tribute," the Head Gamemaker said forcefully. Sherlock ignored him, still fixed on the man at the end.

"She also knows that it's with a man," Sherlock elaborated. "The man sitting next to you, I should add, for anybody currently unaware-"

"I said, begin your session!"

"- although I'm not sure how you could be. That particular man drunk two cups of hot chocolate and ate a bread roll from the Capitol for breakfast this morning, unlike the woman two seats over who hasn't eaten since yesterday lunchtime. The man at the other end- yes, you- is new, and he's not all that sure he likes what's going on. Just a bit of a warning for the rest of you." The Head Gamemaker had stopped trying to interrupt Sherlock, who was now in full flow. Several people were sat with their mouths actually open, and the proposed traitor was frantically denying everything.

"Out of all of you, not one of you slept alone last night. As a group, you were probably most impressed by the male from District 2, but the second woman on the left was more impressed by somebody even earlier on- District 1, then, and I'm relatively sure it was the woman. The twelve year old from Four almost certainly cried halfway through. He tried to demonstrate knot tying, but it didn't go well. Poor lamb," Sherlock screwed his face up in mock sympathy, before scowling and moving on. "Not that you cared." One man fell into a punchbowl.

"The girl in here before me didn't really impress- I'm assuming you'll score her around a five, because whilst she tried archery she was something of an amateur. I think _you_ probably said some witty comment as she walked out- you still seem pleased with yourself," Sherlock directed at the head Gamemaker. "Your favourite was the woman from One too, but mostly because she makes you wish she wasn't a dirty little _district_ girl because of what you want to do to her," Sherlock spat. He took a few step backwards and threw his arms up as if in celebration, heart racing.

"None of you had particularly high hopes for me, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't care. Still don't. And now, if you don't mind, it's getting late and I don't like any of you."

The chaos that began as Sherlock turned around and walked out was music to his ears.

* * *

><p>Molly was putting a lot of effort into sitting still and not twitching or laughing or crying. She had (for some reason) taken Glamor's advice, and avoided the more strength based stations. The problem lay in that she had not found her talent hiding in any of the others.<p>

She could tie a decent knot and throw a knife a fair distance, but nothing outstanding. Nothing worth remembering. _Look on the bright side_, she told herself. _A low score means that nobody will come after you, because they won't think you're worth taking on. _The thought, whilst a little morbid, had a soothing effect. _Good,_ she praised herself. _Now focus on something else._

Instead of her own upcoming session, she decided to focus on everybody else's. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, cursing herself for not paying attention to the six names already called. She frantically scribbled down those she remembered.

**District 1  
><strong>? Anderson ?  
>Irene Adler<p>

**District 2  
><strong>?  
>Shelley ?<p>

**District 3  
><strong>Raymond Hertz  
>Jenna Hetch<p>

She added to her list as names were called, sneaking looks at the tributes as they stood up. If nothing else, it would be nice to put names to faces. It served as a good distraction.

"District Four, Carl Powers," a voice called, and Molly noted it down neatly. She remembered him- _tiny, blonde, only twelve years old._

"District Four, Sarah Sawyer." _Oh, that's the girl sat with John._

"District Five, Jupiter Sparks." _Red haired and built like a giant._

"District Five, Niamh Bird." _Auburn too, but slender._

"District Six, Gregory Lestrade." _Blonde and not bad looking- oh, but he looks terrified._

"District Six, Sherry Queensborough." _Pale skin, brown hair- a bit plain._

"District Seven, Ferris Limber." _Tall, brunette- doesn't really seem afraid._

"District Seven, Kate Long." _Another blonde, quite pretty._

"District Eight, Sherlock Holmes." _Pale skinned, raven haired_- and Molly really couldn't think of a better adjective than _'beautiful'_.

"District Eight, Serra Marsh." _Same colour hair, slightly darker skin._

"District Nine, Bud Peters." _Tanned and lean._

"District Nine, Rose Carmel." _Almost identical to Bud._

"District Ten, Henry Knight." _Young- dark hair, very anxious._

"District Ten, Lorena Fawn." _Tanned, small but seems toned._

"District Eleven, Jonathan Skater." _Dark skin, cropped black hair._

"District Eleven, Sally Donovan." _Dark skin- oh, she looks angry. A little scary, actually. Look away!_

"District Twelve, John Watson." _John._

Her session was last, and after a weak smile from John she found herself alone, with nothing left to take her mind off things. This was it, then. She'd have to do some kind of camouflage, or maybe something to do with edible plants. She started to laugh softly at the sheer absurdity of it. Who won the Games with _edible plants?_

Looking down at her list, she saddened. Despite the kind, reassuring things she continued to whisper mentally, she couldn't really forget the fact that she had no real chance here. She scrawled her name across the bottom of the page as they called it out, knowing even as she did so that she was in no way a contender.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg hadn't done badly; he just hadn't done well. He had opted to use a handgun and shoot targets in his training session. He had managed to hit most. Well, some. Well, he had gotten one smack-bang in the middle, but that had been the only one and they hadn't been looking. Soon he'd find out his score, and he wasn't expecting any miracles.

He hadn't really gotten to know anybody during the training either. Everybody had seemed to split off into groups before Greg had even caught their names. For those three days, he had either stayed alone or stuck with Sherry. Once or twice, he trailed after a trio that looked around his age- the District 12 kids and the boy from Eight- but they didn't seem to notice.

"Are you okay?" Sherry asked, and Greg realised he'd been staring into space.

"Fine, thanks," he smiled weakly, and resumed spooning soup into his mouth. _Not long now_.

Meanwhile, on Floor Twelve, John and Molly were worrying over their own sessions.

"What's the highest you can score and still get sponsors?" Molly asked nervously.

"Maybe a five? Most people get about that. Anything lower and it's probably a little dodgy, though," John guessed.

"Oh," Molly whimpered.

"But you'll get that! You'll definitely get at least a five. Not many people do survival skills stuff, Moll. You'll stand out."

"As an idiot."

"No! You'll have done better than me, anyway. I bet nearly every tribute that went in there went straight for the guns. I should have been more original," he said bitterly. "They'll never remember that."

"As long as you get a high score, it doesn't matter. The sponsors won't know what you did, just that you were good at it. And you _are _good at shooting, I saw you during training," she said confidently. He smiled gratefully. He supposed there had to be a certain degree of truth in it. He'd hit nine targets out of ten, and been pretty close on the last one. The Gamemakers hadn't paid all that much attention, though. They seemed distracted- but tense, like they were just waiting for him to slip up. When he turned around and caught the full force of their glare, he nearly dropped his gun.

One of the only people in the building not panicking over scores was a lone male tribute on Floor Eight, sat at the end of the table and refusing to speak a word to anybody. His immediate reaction had been elation- he had wanted to find John and tell him what he'd done, to get conformation that he'd been as brilliant as he had felt in that moment. But rules were rules, and he'd slunk off to Floor Eight alone to replay it in his head. Now he just felt muted, almost dulled. He didn't know what would happen and he didn't really care either way.

They had nearly finished dinner when Karyn finally gave up hinting, and flat out asked.

"Sherlock, what did you do in your private session?"

"I… talked to them," he said vaguely.

"You talked to them?" she frowned. "About what?"

"II told them things that I'd noticed about them. That was all."

"Did you compliment them on their hair?" she asked in disbelief. "Sherlock, this was your chance to show them what you can do. If all you can do is ramble, then you have no chance of getting out alive."

"What kind of things did you tell them?" Rook asked. Sherlock weighed things up. He didn't particularly want to reveal what he had done, but the chance to smack down Karyn's patronising words was too delicious to pass up.

"What some of the other tributes did, and their scores… that the Head Gamemaker was sexually attracted to the girl from One … that one was sleeping with one of the others. Oh, and what some of them had for breakfast."

There was silence. Serra looked at him, wide eyed. Karyn seemed completely lost for words. Rook just shook his head, and turned his attention back to his food.

"What on earth would possess you to do something like that?" Karyn hissed, leaning across the table. "What on earth were you _thinking_?"

"I don't tolerate fools, and I make no exception for those sending me to my death," Sherlock said flatly. Karyn turned an interesting shade of scarlet.

"This is the most irresponsible, disrespectful thing I have ever heard of in eleven years of work," she said, nearly shaking with anger. "I hope you realise that this will have serious consequences for you."

"Like what? They'll kill me? Oh, no, I can't imagine that ever happening," Sherlock replied, raising his voice. Was he the only sane person in this room? Could nobody else see things as they were? And was he really the first tribute ever to strike back at the Gamemakers? There was no way that, in seventy-four years, he was the first one to ever just go mad at them. _Well, I suppose there's a difference between anger and publically announcing a gay love affair_.

"Sherlock, stop it!" Karyn cried, clearly horrified. "You can't talk like that!"

"Why not?" he demanded. "Give me one good reason not to."

"One good reason not to is stood in the corner of this room," Rook said, voice low. Sherlock glanced over to the Avox that had served them. The woman was looking at him with a mixture of pity, horror and disdain. He was suddenly very conscious of the weight of the tongue in his mouth.

"So, is that what will happen? They'll arrest me?"

"Doubt it," Rook said. "They'd have to go to the trouble of finding a replacement. They'll probably just make your life hell in the arena."

"As opposed to the gentle and enjoyable time I was looking forward to," Sherlock said. Nobody commented. They all focused on their meals in silence.

After dinner, Sherlock agreed to watch the scores from the private sessions. District One and Two did well as always, with the woman from One pulling a ten. From then on, it was mostly fives and sixes- though the twelve year old from Four only got a two. When Sherlock's own picture rose up on screen, he waited patiently for the verdict. Did they ever give out negative scores? He quite liked the idea of pulling 'minus four'.

"A score of… eleven!" the announcer cried, and Sherlock laughed out loud in surprise- even more so when Karyn and Rook looked at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Eleven!" Karyn squeaked. "For… for… why?"

"I guess they admired his spirit," Rook said slowly.

"Did you actually work all of those things out just by watching them?" Serra asked. He nodded and grinned, pleased with himself. The look on her face physically hurt him, deep in his stomach.

"That's weird," she frowned, looking repulsed. "Don't ever do that to me." It wasn't quite 'piss off', but it had the same effect. Sherlock's face fell for a second, but then set back into its usual stoniness.

"Look, Serra, you got a five!" Karyn said, pointing at the screen. "We can work with that!" Sherlock didn't bother to stick around and watch the rest. He swept out of the room, out of Floor Eight, into the elevator. He'd seen the roof from outside the building and worked out that there must be a way to access it from Floor Twelve. He wondered if anybody would question a lone male tribute on a floor that wasn't his, only to realise an instant later that he just didn't care.

The late evening breeze was cool against his skin, and it felt good after hours of stuffy, artificial air. Sherlock walked right up to the edge, and stood looking down. There was a force field there, he noted. No chance of escape- not that he'd planned to try. He had only wanted to get out of the building for a while. He remained still, looking out over the Capitol and thinking. That had been a major annoyance of all this upheaval; there had been so little time to just sit back and _think_.

He heard the footsteps behind him before the familiar voice spoke.

"You okay?" John asked. Sherlock turned to see him stood in the open doorway, watching Sherlock with an expression that he couldn't quite place. Sherlock nodded once, and took a few steps away from the edge. "I thought I saw you from the window. You cast a pretty distinctive shadow." Sherlock made no attempts to break the silence.

"I got an eight," John blurted out. He coloured a little. "In, um, my private session. All I did was shoot, but they still gave me an eight."

A genuine smile came over Sherlock's face. "Really? Well done."

"Thanks," John said. Sherlock looked back out to the city as a piece of particularly loud music started blaring from one tower block. When he looked back, John was grinning at Sherlock in a strangely knowing way.

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"What do you think?"

Sherlock didn't like saying 'I don't know', so he didn't. He just left another pause.

"_Eleven_," John filled in.

"Oh," Sherlock said. To Sherlock's confusion, John started to laugh. "What?"

"The careers got eights and nines. Most tributes get five," John eventually said, "and some didn't even get that. Only Sherlock bloody Holmes could get an _eleven_." And Sherlock finally placed the look on John's face as 'pride', and before he could really react he found himself being pulled into a hug.

"Well done, mate, seriously," John spoke into Sherlock's neck before letting him go. Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to say the 'thank you' on the tip of his tongue.

"What did you do?" John asked, leaning back against the wall. Sherlock copied him.

"Surely you know that."

"I can't imagine you shooting, somehow."

"Why not? I'm good at shooting."

"I didn't say you weren't. But would you really do something that ordinary?" Sherlock thought he had probably smiled more in the last ten minutes than he had in the last year.

"I just spoke to them. That was all."

"Oh, God, you deduced them."

"I deduced things _about _them," Sherlock corrected.

"Christ. Is that even allowed?"

"I doubt many people have tried it before."

"Fair point. They must have thought it'd be useful in the arena. Being able to tell if people are skilled or not, what weapons they have, whether or not they're lying…."

"That wouldn't make much of a difference to a two-hundred pound giant with a machete."

"Yeah, but fictional machete-men won't get anywhere near you, because you're too smart for that." John said. After a brief hesitation, he added "You could win this, Sherlock".

Sherlock considered this. "There's no denying that I'm an unbelievably intelligent man and most of the others are very stupid children," he replied. "If it was a battle of wits, there'd be no question. But the fact is that there's not always time for wits in this kind of thing. Something much more primal can be of greater use," he said, looking at John. He could see the boy's mind flashing back to their first meeting-

_-quite correctly, I suspect-_

and trying to evaluate and re-evaluate the situation. Sherlock knew that John couldn't predict what was going to happen- but wondered if he, himself, could. He'd always been able to in the past- to say which tributes would die first, who stood the best chances, what the best strategies would be. But they hadn't seen the arena yet, he hadn't watched the interviews, and to be completely honest he wasn't trying. He didn't want to try.

It was strange. Usually he was eager to work it out, to see if he could get it right. Maybe this was different because they were living, breathing people who he saw every day. Maybe it was different because he was one of the pawns in the game he was trying to play out in his head. Whatever the reason, it was different this time. This time, he was actively fighting to not know.

"It's the interviews tomorrow, right?" John asked.

"Of course."

"Nervous?"

"I don't get nervous, John."

"Hopeful?"

"For what?"

"I give up. Any feelings at all?"

"Not really. It's just another pointless little round. It's not really relevant."

"It can get you sponsors," John pointed out. "That's pretty damn relevant."

"Oh, yes. Our adoring crowd, all somewhere out there," Sherlock said, looking back out across the city. John followed suit.

"It's almost beautiful, isn't it?" John said. The Capitol was displayed in front of them, so clear and sparkling and just out of reach. On their rooftop, in the darkness, all he could see was John's faintly lit figure and his own cold breath. Sherlock leant back against the rough brick wall and breathed in the night.

"There are so many lights," he mused. The buildings were illuminated with a kind of brightness that he'd never seen light the factories at home. The mayor's brother might have gotten a few luxuries back in District 8, but Sherlock hadn't wanted Mycroft's money and so Mycroft had stopped offering it. Besides, a high end lifestyle in the districts would be beyond hell for any Capitol resident.

"And so many people," John said softly. Sherlock could even make some of them out- only pinpricks in the distance, partying and shouting and swarming in hoards.

"Look at all of them, John. They don't even know, do they?"

"What don't they know?"

"What they have. What we haven't." Sherlock paused. "What we'd give to have so much and to know so little."

Neither of them looked away from the vivid world in front of them, and neither of them spoke. Sherlock didn't move as John's hand found his, and squeezed it gently before letting it go. The brief moment of warmth stayed with him long after he'd retired quietly to his own floor.

* * *

><p>The woman from District One wore clothes this time, although they left very little to the imagination. Greg spent equal amounts of time staring and trying not to stare.<p>

"Miss Adler," the host greeted (he definitely had no qualms about staring). "It's so good to see you again. Although, I think we saw more than we'd expected last time," he threw to the audience, who lapped it up. They screeched their approval, hooting and clapping. Irene sat with her back straight and legs crossed, seemingly in total control.

"So what was the motivation behind that choice?" the host asked, leaning forwards. Irene's lips curved upwards, and she tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Well, they offered me all kinds of beautiful dresses and robes- but at the end of the day, it's difficult to improve on perfection." The crowd went insane again, and Greg looked away. She was eighteen, so presumably old enough for their standards.

He had received a five in training. It was a pretty average score, and he was okay with that. The problem had been the interview. His mentor was at a loss as to how Greg should try and present himself. They attempted awe-struck (he couldn't gush), funny (he wasn't), dangerous (that one was best forgotten). They had completely side-stepped Irene Adler's angle, which brought him endless relief. It was always risky to try 'sexy', but she did it very well; when her three minutes were up, most of the audience's eyes didn't leave her. The poor boy she had come with was almost entirely overlooked.

Both of Two's tributes were quiet but undoubtedly menacing, whereas Three's pair were just plain quiet. Everybody had the good grace to give Carl Powers their full attention, and the young boy coped remarkably well under the stress.

"Do you think a twelve year old could really win these Games?" the host asked, not unkindly. Carl bit his lip.

"I hope so," he said. "I think it depends on what the arena's like." His timer went off, he returned to his seat, and Greg didn't miss the thumbs up the boy from District 10 gave him. Neither did the host. When Niahm, the District 5 girl, sat down, the man was ready with a new line of questioning.

"How are you getting on with the other tributes?" he asked.

"Really well, actually. I didn't think we'd all get on as well as we did, but people just seem to have stuck together for some reason. Maybe we're all just more friendly than usual," she grinned, and he chuckled and patted her on the arm.

"Friends won't help in the arena," he reminded her, voice dropping into seriousness.

"Allies can, though," she argued. And then it was the boy from District 5, and then Shelley, and then Greg was taking his seat in front of Panem.

"Greg," the host greeted warmly, and the audience applauded politely. "How are you today?"

Greg forgot every mildly interesting or amusing thing he could say. His entire mouth went dry, and he responded with a mutter of "… um".

"Tongue tied?" the host asked, and the catcalls from the audience bit into him like insects. "Let's try another question, if that one's too difficult for you." More laughter, more shouting.

"No, it's fine," Greg finally forced out. "I'm fine, thank you. How about you?"

"Well, I was getting a little bored, but it looks like you've decided to talk to us after all," he smirked. "How're you finding the Capitol?"

"I like it," Greg said. "It's different to home, though."

"I'll bet. It must be so much better out here. He's lucky to get to see this gorgeous city, isn't he folks?" And the audience roared their appreciation, as if this was all just a scheme to take unfortunate children out of the districts and make them into stars.

"I'm lucky, yeah," Greg replied, not daring to consider if he believed it or not.

"You got a five in training?" the host asked.

"Yeah, that was good. I just… shot some things," he said limply. The remainder of the interview carried in a similar way. Dull question, dull answer, an offering to the audience to inject some kind of life into things. When Greg waved goodbye and Sherry was called up, he was just glad that he had made it to the end. Of course, nobody would remember him, but what did that really matter?

Sherry did similarly, although she was a bit more amiable than he had been. District Seven weren't much better, although the girl- Kate, Greg thought her name was- had a certain cheekiness to her that made some of the others sit up and pay attention.

The boy from Eight that Greg had seen in training sauntered over to the chair like he couldn't really be bothered. He had been the tribute that got an _eleven_- Greg's mentor had been muttering about it for hours. Greg had no idea what he might have done. He hadn't seen anything during training to indicate that Sherlock was amazing at either attack or defence, but what did he know?

"Sherlock!" the host beamed, seemingly amazed by the boy's mere presence. "Your score in training was remarkable, young man."

"I know," he replied. There was a strange kind of dissonance when he didn't gush as the room had expected him to. A few mutters began within the crowds gathered.

"Were you surprised when you heard the score?"

"I hadn't put that much thought into it, to be honest," the man replied, and the audience seemed to decide he was aiming for droll. They accepted this quickly, and were soon tittering gleefully. But Greg couldn't shake the feeling - something about his tone, or his posture- that Sherlock wasn't joking.

"Do you want to know what he did to get that eleven?" the host asked the audience, who demonstrated their agreement in a solid wall of noise.

"Tough," Sherlock said flatly, cutting the host off before he even asked the question. No, Sherlock definitely wasn't just trying to be funny. Greg watched him with a strange mix of dread and awe. He'd only seen a few tributes behave like this, and they tended to exit the Games very quickly. And painfully.

"You're from Eight?" the host asked, attempts at banter fading.

"That's correct, yes."

"What's it like there?"

Sherlock seemed to struggle to answer this. "It's large. There are lots of factories. We deal with textiles."

"Yes, but what's it like for_ you_?"

"I don't understand the question." Greg wondered if Sherlock was just socially awkward, but that wasn't it. It was more like he just flat-out didn't care, or he was angry, or he was trying to prove something. For some reason, Greg got the impression that if he wanted, Sherlock could probably be charming as hell. He just… chose not to be.

Greg was a little surprised to realise that he liked him. He liked Sherlock Holmes, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the man being his opposite in nearly every way.

* * *

><p>John had drummed his fingers on his leg anxiously through every tribute's turn but this one. He forced himself to stay still as Sherlock took the interview seat, not wanting to distract him. He wondered what angle his friend would try to play. John had been advised to go for 'friendly', and he was hoping he could pull it off. He couldn't imagine Sherlock trying the same, somehow.<p>

His prep team had evidently gone for sexy- he was dressed in a purple shirt that was too tight to be entirely decent- but as the three minutes ticked on, it was clear that his attitude was anything but enticing.

"I don't understand the question," Sherlock stated, not making any attempts to apologise or justify.

"I mean, what are you fighting to get back to? Do you have a girlfriend waiting for you?"

Sherlock screwed his face up. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"A boyfriend, then?"

"No."

"Anybody here who's caught your eye? They did say that you're all getting friendlier next year, am I right?" There was the obligatory pause for clapping and screaming from the Capitol residents, but Sherlock did not visibly react.

"No, not really."

"Okay, so no romance. What about friends, then?"

"Friends? No, I don't have friends. I certainly don't intend to start making them here."

"Ouch," the host winced to the background of laughter. "Nobody that you care about even a little bit?"

Sherlock replied with a casual "No, not really".

"You're sure?"

"Of course," Sherlock said before a shrill burst of noise declared his interview over.

"Well, you can't say he isn't feisty. Give it up for Sherlock Holmes from District Eight!"

John let out a breath he had forgotten about. That was that, then.

It would be point blank ludicrous, he thought, to care at all what a man he had met four days ago thought about him. Even more so when he considered all of the very real threats he would be up against so very soon. What did friendship matter? What did loyalties matter? In the arena, all that mattered was staying alive. He would die and Sherlock would probably die, and what went on between them in the interim made absolutely no difference.

Sherlock happened to look down as John looked up, and their eyes met. For a split second, John felt like his pulse had stopped of its own accord. Then Sherlock looked away, uninterested, and John's heart went slamming back into his chest at twice the normal strength. It hurt, no matter how much he tried to pretend that it didn't.


	6. Chapter 6

Food had no taste and words had no weight as John and Molly finished their final meal. They only spoke a few times, with Glamor remaining as disdainful as ever. John was almost grateful for the small sense of continuity that his escort's rudeness brought. Disliking the man was something that John could hang on to when everything else was about to change.

"Any advice?" John asked gruffly as soon as he finished. A part of him wanted to stay at the table for hours. He could not imagine death or violence occurring in this strange, isolated world of decadence and refinery. But he couldn't just pretend that it wasn't going to happen, and prolonging the delusion would be a waste of time.

"Don't go for the Cornucopia," Glamor said without looking up from his plate. "Especially not you, princess. Run as fast as you can and as far as you can and just try to stay alive."

"What about weapons?" John asked.

"Don't go for weapons. Anything can be a weapon- your hands, head, a rock, a branch. Don't waste time getting greedy. Every second you spend there more than doubles your risk of death."

"Food?" Molly asked.

"There's usually some kind of external source. Don't get squeamish- if you have to drink blood or eat entrails, do it. Do not pass up on a chance to eat."

"Water, then?"

"That's the single most important thing, and it's the same case- there'll be some, somewhere. If you find a lake or river, stick by it. You'll end up in fights- people are always drawn to water- but it's the safest option."

"What if we can't stay there? Like if somebody else gets there first?" Molly pressed.

"Well, I'd advise killing them. If you can't do that, try and get a bottle or something else that can hold water and fill it up while they sleep."

"And if we can't do that?"

"Don't forget you can drink the rain. Make sure you're never in a situation where you have no water. Worst case scenario, pee in the damn bottle."

"Glamor?" John asked. He had been quiet, concentrating on absorbing the advice they desperately needed. But it hadn't skipped his attention that this was one of the first times he'd even heard Glamor speak a full sentence. Nobody replied, and John took the silence as an invitation to continue. "How long have you been training kids for?"

"Four years," he said guardedly.

"Oh, that's not that long," Molly commented.

"It's long enough," he said, and he looked at the two of them directly for what John thought was the first time. His bleached platinum hair and violently pink makeup distracted away from his actual eyes- a soft slate grey that for a split second were strangely vulnerable. Combined with his unusually fervent speech, it was like his mentor had been sucked into a different world; possibly the one he had occupied four years ago.

"Maybe they'll let you go to a decent district soon," John said flatly. Glamor was human, and that was good to know. But the end of the day, he was a human in shimmering jewelled clothes that cost more than John's father had made in a year. Glamor would still be alive to waste his money on those beautiful clothes in a day, a week, a year. John could not say the same for himself. It was understandable that Glamor had tuned himself out to pain of training children for death. It was not excusable.

"I live in hope," Glamor replied in a similar fashion, face hardened. It seemed to John that there was nothing left to say, so he excused himself. Molly stayed behind to finish her meal, and John was grateful for the few moments of solitude. He showered, wondering when he'd get the chance to get clean again- if he'd ever get that chance. He had fully intended to go straight to bed, but everything felt suddenly alien when he turned off the light. He couldn't understand why. He'd already stayed there for days, sleeping on silk sheets under thick duvets. Why did it suddenly feel so wrong?

Molly didn't comment when she walked in to find him curled up on the floor by his bed, head resting on his arm and covered only by a simple tartan blanket. He was grateful for that. He didn't want to explain because he didn't really know he knew was that, with the horrors of tomorrow awaiting him, anything relating to the Capitol felt terrifying- to be avoided at all costs.

On the ground, covered by only the thin material, he felt much safer. Things were what they were. He gazed around the room he had been so impressed by on the first day. Vivid colours or diamonds hiding death and destruction; the awful reality that they were all here to be killed. What was the point in pamper before slaughter?

He didn't sleep well. The third time he bolted upright, awoken by horrifying nightmares, he decided to go and get a glass of water. As he crossed the floor, he caught sight of a dark shape moving beyond the window. He stood still as his eyes adjusted and the form sharpened into familiarity. A man, in a coat, stood looking out over the city. John got his drink and returned to his room as quickly and as quietly as possible. By the next morning, he had convinced himself that he only imagined the flash of Sherlock's face, turning to look at him.

* * *

><p>Greg tried not to wince as the woman stabbed his arm and inserted the tracker. She moved swiftly on, leaving him staring straight at the girl from District 12. He looked away too quickly. Greg remembered her interview. She had been yet another tribute pigeonholed into the 'desirable' category- he thought he even remembered her saying that they'd pierced her ears just for the occasion.<p>

(The earrings matched the silver trim on her dress. Greg remembered the dress because if he was completely honest, he'd spent quite a lot of time looking at her in it.)

He made himself eat and drink, blandly following the instructions he had been given. His stylist attempted conversation, but they had passed the point where they had anything at all to talk about. Greg didn't really want to spend his last few moments making strained comments about the view, so he was pleased when they fell into silence.

The windows blacked out as they approached the arena, and he fought as hard as he could to keep the damn food inside of he climbed off of the ladder at the end of the journey, he nearly fell over. His stylist narrowed her eyes at him. He stayed perfectly still until the blackness clouding his vision eased away, and he let himself be led to the Launch Room. He dressed in the clothes that his stylist handed him, furious at his embarrassment at changing in front of her. _Grow up._

Greg drunk more water as they waited in a vacuum of noiselessness. The voice rang out to announce the launch, and he swallowed hard and stood on the circular metal plate.

"Are you okay?" his stylist asked, and he nodded mutely.

"Just try your best, kid," she said, smiling sympathetically. He returned the smile feebly, and then the cylinder was enclosing him and he couldn't move or think or _breathe._

_No, shut up, of course you can breathe. Just stay calm. _He was thrust into darkness as the tube moved upwards, and he was convinced that now he really was going to faint. He didn't know if he felt better or worse when he was suddenly stunned by a world of light, slamming into him like a physical force.

Sixty seconds. He just had to stay there and not do anything stupid for sixty seconds, and then he would run and run and he would not look back. Nobody had spoken to him about the Cornucopia, and he didn't blame them. One look at the athletic boys and girls that surrounded him, poised to sprint, told him all he needed to know about his chances. He used his minute to instead take in the arena, eyes adjusting to the almost violent brightness.

Grass. There was grass here. That could only be a good sign, right? There wasn't much grass in District Six- you don't need vegetation to make hovercrafts. But he'd seen enough to recognise it, and this arena was already much better than the barren deserts he'd been fearing. They were in a clearing, a circular forest of tall trees surrounding them. They started off sparse but soon grew so dense that Greg couldn't tell what lay beyond them. It was something of a mixed blessing. On one hand, it would be easy to hide. On the other, it would be easy for the people hunting you to do the same.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he very nearly missed the gong. Luckily for him, a more basic instinct took over when his brain was too slow to react properly. He was running before he could remember why, and when it all clicked all he did was run faster. He had turned around completely and was sprinting away from the Cornucopia, away from the screams and crashes behind him. He could hear people moving through the forest nearby, but he paid them no attention. All that mattered was getting as far away as possible. He'd figure out what to do next if he made it to later.

* * *

><p>Most people looking around the arena in those sixty seconds grace registered the following:<p>

There is grass here.

There are trees here.

It's not very hot or very cold.

Those from the agricultural districts made a note of the kind of trees, while those from Districts One and Two focused themselves on the pile of weapons in front of them. A few of the more intelligent boys and girls made the connection that water must be relatively available if they were surrounded by greenery. When Sherlock took in the arena, he recorded the following:

_Grass and trees mean that there's a regular supply of water, probably rain of some kind but that can always be artificially prevented or induced so don't get too sure, two rabbits and birdsong to the right but no signs of wildlife on the left- right's more likely to contain the water or food sources. Grass gets longer the further into the forest you go, could hide potential traps- must be careful when walking- trees show no obvious signs of producing fruit or edible substances. Most weapons/food lying to left hand side of Cornucopia, intention is to drive tributes towards the left hand side, so right side almost certainly safer. Berries recognisable from edible plants station- benign- fungi- deadly- not a huge surplus of food in the Cornucopia so overall safe food sources seem likely. No point in wasting time getting food supplies. Weapons, however-_

Rook had asked Sherlock if he could run, and Sherlock had said yes. Sherlock had asked Rook if he should go for it, and Rook had said yes. They had a silent understanding that Sherlock was going to go for the Cornucopia no matter what, and that Rook didn't really care either way.

There was a handgun only a short sprint from Sherlock. It was towards the left, which wasn't where he wanted to go, but it was close enough so that he could grab it and run. Weighing things up, the gun was the most logical item to go for. And oh, he wanted to go for _something._

Sherlock was running as the gong struck, foot hitting the ground a fraction of a second after the mines deactivated. He was fast, but others were fast too, and has he raced towards the gun he could see and hear them closing in around him. An impossibly quick tribute across from him had secured a pack of throwing knives, and when Sherlock looked up the boy reached into his pack for one to hurl. Sherlock threw himself into the dirt, rolling as he hit the ground, and the blade sailed over his shoulder.

He was only inches away from the gun and he lunged towards it only to find that somebody else had got there first. Fear and determination were struggling for dominance on John's face when their fingers closed around the weapon at the same time. As John's skin touched his, a jolt of something Sherlock couldn't entirely explain shot through him. He was only distracted for a moment, but it was enough time for John to wrench the gun from him and pelt into the woods surrounding them.

The small move had thrown Sherlock's entire plan off. Confused and angry at himself (and still with an ember of something new and not understood glowing inside of him), he forced himself upwards and grabbed the nearest pack, some simple survival equipment. He looked up seconds before the knife met his eyes; early enough to flatten out against the ground and hear it whistle over him. He went to run, but his attacker was closing in, already pulling out another blade.

There was no way Sherlock would be able to dodge past him, so instead he turned and just ran. He was running into the _left _hand side of the woods, and his internal monologue was shouting that that was _wrong_. He had to be on the right hand side, that was where the water was, that was where it was safe. But as the right hand side currently held a muscled, angry boy who still had a good selection of throwing knives, Sherlock ignored this complaint and carried on. 'Safety' could only ever be temporary here. What other choice did he have?

* * *

><p>John was fully aware that Glamor had told them not to go for weapons, but couldn't shake the conviction that if he just had a gun, things would somehow fall into place. Ranged weapons were the most useful of all in this kind of situation, and that gun had called his name. He gripped it tightly in his palm as he ran, praying to anybody who would listen that it was loaded and he hadn't risked his life for nothing.<p>

He hadn't noticed it at first, but the forest was changing the further in he ran. He only just missed a thick and gnarled tree root, hidden by the long grass. He forced himself to take a short break and scan his surroundings. He was surrounded by thick, tangled vegetation, baring almost no resemblance to the shaven field holding the Cornucopia. Shooting wary looks around, he started walking instead, slowing picking his way across the ground. He had been continuing in this manner for what he guessed was around twenty minutes, when a loud noise thundered through the arena and the floor seemed to shake under his feet.

A cannon blast.

There was something odd about that, something that John couldn't quite place. It was a few minutes later when the uneasiness finally sharpened to a point and revealed itself he realised just what was so strange. They didn't fire the cannons until late afternoon on the first day; the fighting was too intense for them to do it any other way. So why fire the cannons now, when for seventy-three years nothing had changed?

Twenty minutes must have passed- fifteen at the very least. Usually five or six tributes were taken out in the first two minutes alone, in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. John's heart quickened a little. Could it be that they had changed their style because there _wasn't _a bloodbath? That the fighting had already ended, and only one cannon had fired because only one tribute had died?

_One tribute died_. The enormity of the thought induced a sudden wave of nausea, engulfing him. He kept walking, wobbling slightly, eyes following an invisible path on the floor in front of him. One of the children he had trained with, eaten with, smiled at, had died. _Who? _ The boy who congratulated John when he hit the hardest target in archery? The red haired girl who always smiled at him whenever she saw him? Or somebody even closer? The girl from Twelve and the boy from Eight smiled at him in his imagination, before being blown apart by mines or torn apart by daggers.

If he lived, they would all die. Even if he died, only one could live. He couldn't help but wonder who he _wanted _it to be, but killed that train of thought before it even got going. He couldn't help but feel like it might somehow influence fate, and he was not prepared to play into that game.

A second cannon blast shook him out of his stupor. This was not the time to examine his morals. The grass was shortening under his feet, and he thought he could see an opening beyond the trees. John couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at the idea of getting out of the woods. Every twig snap and rustle caused terror to rip into him. Out in the open, he'd be much better prepared for anybody coming for him.

Before he left the cover of the woods, he paused to check the gun. Loaded. He gave a grim smile, and set out to find whatever lay beyond the trees.

* * *

><p>The boy with the knives was following Sherlock into the woods. He ducked neatly to the left and the cold kiss of metal grazed the air by his cheek. This tribute was good. He was from District Nine, Sherlock remembered; received a seven in his private session but had avoided any shooting or throwing equipment from the first day onwards. Sherlock had sussed that he'd have talent in one of those areas, although he had been leaning towards archery. Another knife skimmed him, and Sherlock increased his pace. The grass was growing longer and tangled, and he had to devote all of his brainpower to staying on his feet.<p>

He veered suddenly to the left, catching him off guard for a split second. Soon he was following again, but Sherlock made a sudden right turn and was rewarded by a stumble behind him. His grin was cut short by the ear-piercing scream that shattered the tense silence of the woods. He spun around, on the alert for a predator or disaster coming their way. Instead, he watched as the woman from One neatly slammed the boy's head into a nearby tree. He crumpled to the ground instantly.

"Thank you, dear," the woman smiled at the unmoving body, plucking the blade from his hand and turning him over. She spoke as she pulled the boy's weapons from his bag, examining them.

"He's just unconscious. If I had wanted him dead, you would have heard the cannon by now." Sherlock was not sure what he was waiting for. The woman looked up at him, seemingly amused by his presence.

"Go on then. Run," she said, slowly and deliberately closing her hand on a particularly sharp knife.

Sherlock ran.

* * *

><p>It had only taken John a few hours to find the river. It was long, stretching on further than he could see, and he assumed it was safe. He didn't really have another choice. He drank as much as he could, and sat by the bank for a while. He felt exposed, sparse grass stretching in every direction, but he did not want to go back into the woods. And hadn't he done the most important thing of all? He had found water. The only thing concerning him was when the others would find it too.<p>

What was he supposed to do next? It was a ridiculous notion that _boredom _would be an issue in the Hunger Games, but he was at a genuine loss for how to spend his time. He did not want to hunt people down and there was nobody nearby to worry about. He considered practising with the gun, but he only had limited ammo and he didn't want to waste it. The best thing he could do would be to try and find some kind of shelter by the river, and then look for food. It seemed as good a plan as any.

As he began to trek up the river, never deviating from its path, a third cannon shot rocketed throughout the arena. Three, in as many hours. John had never known anything like it; in fact, he'd seen Games where the number of tributes had halved by now. He wondered briefly if they were just having issues with the cannons, but dismissed the thought. The Capitol didn't 'have problems' with equipment. So it was back to his original suspicion- that the fatality level was so low, there had been no point in waiting. He thought back to the training centre, to the tributes holding hands and telling jokes. Had that loyalty stuck?

John had assumed (quite cynically, he supposed) that the tentative friendships formed would dissolve almost instantly. In a place like this, there had to be a point when a person stopped being a friend and started being a competitor, just another predator. He was lucky to be alone and not have to face that dilemma, he thought. He continued to stubbornly refuse to acknowledge any thoughts about the man from District Eight. Maybe there would no doubt for those from the same District- John had promised himself the day he was chosen that he would not lay a finger on Molly- but what about the new relationships that had formed? Could those few days of bonding really overcome everything the Games stood for?

A fourth cannon shot put a grimace on his face. Maybe not, then.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N- THIS CHAPTER IS HUGE- even by my standards! ******I'm starting to think Monday will be 'Stardust update day'.****

**Sorry to sound like a patronising twat, but I wanted to explain 'time stuff' in this fic. Don't assume that what you're reading is linear. Whilst the story overall will progress in a chronological order, there'll be a fair amount of timey-wimey wibbly-wobbly stuff as I character-swap. I hope it's relatively easy to follow!**

**One final note- things get dark from this point on. Don't read while eating.**

* * *

><p>"You look lost." Greg made a significant effort to appear casual as he turned around. The girl from Eleven leant against a rock a few feet away, watching him and grinning. He'd been walking and jogging for a few hours now, and had made it out of the initial cluster of trees by just going straight. That part had been simple; it was where to go from there that had confused him.<p>

"I'm fine," he said warily. He couldn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean she didn't have any. Seemingly reading his thoughts, she spread her arms.

"I'm clean," she told him. "See." She twirled around, showing that she was definitely unarmed.

"What do you want?" Greg asked.

"I don't _want _anything. You look lost, that's all."

"I've hardly been here before," he said defensively. She laughed.

"Oh, feeling feisty? I bet you've just been wandering around since the Games started, haven't you?"

"Well, what else was I supposed to do?

"Find water, you idiot. That's what everybody's supposed to do. There's a river nearby- I'm going there now, if you want to follow me."

"Yeah, and get ambushed," he snorted. "Thanks, but no thanks." She laughed, in a not-entirely pleasant way.

"There's no ambush. Don't flatter yourself."

"Then I don't understand. Why would you help me?"

She shrugged. "It's useful to have allies. I'm trying to track down Jonathan, but you're the next best thing. I was searching for food when I saw you- guess my luck finally came in."

"Oh." Something small began to glow inside of Greg. "Okay." He still wasn't entirely sure he could trust her, but it seemed as good a strategy as any.

"So what's your name again?" she asked as they travelled.

"Greg. Yours?"

"Sally. What were you, from Seven?"

"No, Six. Are you and Jason from the same district then?"

"His name's Jonathon, and yeah. I meant to find him at the Cornucopia, but we lost track of each other."

"Oh, okay. So do you know him from school or something?"

"Nah. He's two years older than me."

"Oh, so he's… fifteen?"

"Seventeen," she glared. "_I'm_ fifteen, thank you."

"Okay, sorry. So how do you know him, then?"

"We worked on the same farm, transporting the produce. It's a good idea to have allies that you know and trust."

"Oh. Wait a second," Greg said- he just couldn't help himself. "Is that why you choose me? You trust me?"

"No, idiot. It's because I'm pretty sure that if you snapped one night and attacked me, I'd win. It's _also _a good idea to have allies that are weaker than you."

"Oh," he said; and then after a pause, "okay".

"Do you actually know other words?" she asked incredulously, and he decided it would be a good idea to just stay quiet for a little while. Sally seemed to agree.

* * *

><p>They were four cannon-shots in when Sherlock discovered the first sign, carved into the dirt under a bush. He had noticed the low death toll- of course he had- but he wasn't bothered. What everybody else was doing was of little relevance to him. He had been feeling for mud or any indication that there would be life nearby; he was still very much on the wrong side of the woods, and trying to find his way back. It would have been simple if not for the various turns he had had to take to shake off the boy with the knives. If he just walked in a straight line, he could be just heading further in the forest, resigned to die quietly of dehydration. His progress in finding a water source so far had been… lacking.<p>

When he noticed the 'V', cut into the ground as if with a knife, a bolt of excitement ran through him. Something different. _Finally._ He ran his finger very gently over it. He even pushed on it lightly, but nothing happened. Just a mark, then. He checked the ground twice and then a third time, but there hadn't been any other letters that had been wiped away- just that one 'V'. His mind scrolled through various possibilities. _Violence. Victory. Victors. _Somebody's initials, perhaps? He couldn't remember any tributes with a name beginning with 'V', though.

He reached into the bag he had taken and pulled out his token. They had debated at length as to whether or not it could be considered a weapon, but had eventually consented to him having it. The small, rectangular magnifying glass would probably be of little use in the arena, but he felt more comfortable having it with him. It was good to finally get the chance to use it again.

The 'V' looked recent. When he compared the dirt in the dent to the soil around it, he found the crevice was not quite as dry. He was unwilling to leave the spot, but time was moving on and the sun was beginning to sink. Sherlock had decided to measure time by the cannon shots until he could find a better way to do things. There was no way to judge time in the arena other than by the rise and fall of the sun, and it didn't take a genius to realise that the Gamemakers could manipulate that.

Eventually, having garnered all he could from the mark, he turned his attention to gathering a few handfuls of berries from a nearby bush. He had come across them at Edible Plants; whilst not particularly appetising, they were safe. He ate them absent-mindedly as he walked on.

Trees pressed endlessly in on Sherlock as he continued searching. It was difficult; more so than he had anticipated. The Gamemakers intended to give nothing away, and everywhere he turned he saw the exact same trees, the exact same grass, the exact same everything. He was trying to find or create markers, but the more he walked the less oriented he felt. Every noise in the trees around him caused him to freeze in place, ready to run or fight or climb (could he climb a tree? He was sure he could figure it out). Each had been a false alarm, though; if there were tributes still in the forest, they hadn't come after him. Yet.

Evening passed and night began to fall, and still Sherlock walked. If he was hungry or tired, he didn't notice. He briefly wondered if any cameras were following him, but concluded against it. He might be flashed up every hour or so, but nothing more. There was nothing interesting about a man wandering around a forest.

In the growing darkness, it was even harder to tell where he had been and where he had to go. It reached the point where his surroundings merged into one solid, indistinguishable wall, and he was forced to stop. There was no way he could see in the inky blackness he had been plunged into, and the last thing he wanted was to run into a trap or another tribute.

Relying on touch more than sight, he located a sturdy-seeming tree and gently tested his weight on the first branch. It held, and he pulled himself up. It was slow and systematic, but he had soon swung his way onto a wide branch about three-quarters of the way up. It was a little brighter up there, with more of the moonlight able to reach him. He took the opportunity to investigate the pack he had taken. He had briefly checked it earlier, but only for water or food. There had been neither.

Sherlock pulled out the items one by one, feeling them carefully and holding them up to the watery light to make out their shapes. A coil of rope. A small bottle of iodine. An empty flask, a wooden box of matches, a thin black sleeping bag and a miniature flashlight. Every fibre of him itched to continue on through the forest under torchlight. People would be sleeping now, so it would probably even be safer.

But something- some long forgotten sense of self-preservation- kept him clinging to the tree. He hadn't been able to tell where he was going in the daylight; with just a thin beam of light, he'd be worse than useless. And if everybody else was asleep, then he may as well follow suit. As much as Sherlock loathed the idea of wasting five or six hours- time that could be used exploring or thinking or investigating- he reluctantly conceded that he was going to need all the energy he could get.

He grudgingly tugged the sleeping bag up around him. Again relying on touch, he managed to fasten the rope around himself and the trunk, mimicking the knots he had learned in training. There. It would not be impossible for him to fall out of the tree, but it would be much harder. Trying to ignore the on-going stream of his thoughts, buzzing angrily around the crevices of his skull, Sherlock closed his eyes. He would find water in the morning.

* * *

><p>Molly was still a little dazed that she had not only made it out of the Cornucopia, but had actually gotten something for her troubles. She had meant to take Glamor's advice, she really had, but something had come over her at the last minute. Something that said she was sick of just doing what people told her, of always assuming that they knew best. It was a little like self-belief.<p>

She ran her fingers lightly over the bow. It was a fairly standard one, and she had a limited cache of arrows- but _she had arrows_. She had a weapon. She had briefly caught sight of John running parallel to her in the forest, and had seen the flash of something metallic in his hand. Neither of them had listened to Glamor, then. She felt guilty for letting her mentor down on one of the rare times he had tried to help, but at least she had stuck to his second piece of advice.

The river was very long. Molly knew that because she had found it and nobody else was there. If _she _had managed to find such a valuable resource, others must have done so first. The stream stretched out ahead of her and behind her, and she suspected it ran the whole length of the arena. There were various bushes and rocks scattered around, and in a few places even clusters of trees.

Molly had managed to find a large bush with no berries to attract others or thorns to scratch at her, and torn out branches to create a space inside. She curled herself inside her nest and listened to the anthem play. She could just about make out the few faces that appeared in the sky above. Both of Three flashed up (Molly wondered if they had gone out protecting each other), then the girl from Six, and then a huge jump to the boy from Eleven. Molly tried her hardest to remember her list. Sherry? Had that been one of the girls? She supposed it didn't really matter anymore.

Molly returned to her bow, plucking gently at the string. She was okay at archery. Passable. If somebody came after her, she probably wouldn't react in time, but maybe the bow's presence would unnerve them a little if nothing else. Make them think twice about coming after her.

Molly heard the rustle of leaves behind her and was out of her den in a second. She was still clutching at her bow, but the arrows were on a branch inside, out of reach. _Useless. _It was dark, too dark to see properly, but there was a shape only a short distance away. A human shape. The figure turned to look at Molly, and cocked its head on the side, intrigued.

"You heard me coming," a feminine voice said, seemingly without anger. Molly thought she remembered hearing it before, but she couldn't find the name.

"Um… yes?" Molly said. She wasn't sure why.

"Most people don't hear me," the voice said, and the figure began to shift closer. Molly hovered in place, torn between sprinting and listening. "Or if they do, they ignore it. So why did you leave so quickly? Most people would have at least waited for a few seconds to check."

"I- I don't know," Molly said. "I was just lucky, I guess."

"I suppose so," the woman said, moving closer still until she was inches away. Her skin glowed an ethereal white in the moonlight; she was a little taller than Molly, and definitely older. "But with reactions that quick? With instincts that sharp? Do you want to know what I think?"

"Um- okay," Molly said, swallowing firmly. She could see the woman smile, even in the darkness.

"I think you didn't act like most people because you _aren't _most people. I think you're rather more special than you give yourself credit for."

"I don't think so," Molly laughed uneasily. "I'm … average."

"Oh, no. Innocent, yes. _Vanilla, _yes. But average? I don't think so."

"I- there's nothing wrong with average," Molly stuttered.

"I wouldn't know, dear. I'm far too exciting for that." Her words finally made something click inside Molly's head.

"You're the woman from One, aren't you?" she asked. "Irene?"

"What was it that gave it away?" she drawled.

"You sound half in love with yourself," Molly blurted out without really thinking. "No, I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" The woman just laughed.

"Sweetie, I'm fully in love with myself. Why settle for anybody less?"

"I- I, um-"

"I do think I'm going to need an ally, though," Irene said thoughtfully. "The Games this year are frightfully sociable, and I was never one to fall behind on a trend. I meant to just knock you out and steal that bow, but I can hardly ignore you now, can I?"

"I, um- no?"

"No indeed. So allies, then?"

"Yes, okay," Molly nodded, beginning to smile.

"Excellent," Irene returned her smile broadly. "You can take the first shift- I'm going to sleep. I almost certainly shouldn't trust you, but what's life without a little risk?"

"Wait, shift?" Molly asked, alarmed, as the woman began to move towards the hollowed-out bush. "What shift?"

"The guard shift, of course. It isn't safe for us both to sleep at once. There's a game on, you know, and some people play dirty." She climbed inside the greenery, but popped her head back out a second later. "I should know."

* * *

><p>The picture faded and the anthem cut off abruptly, and silence pressed down on Greg's lungs. He and Sally had been picking berries from a nearby bush when the music preceding the death count had begun to play. <em>The girl from Six. The boy from Eleven. <em>Why had they both lost their partners on the same day? On the first day? Even in a world of unfairness, it felt cruel. _Don't think like that_, he reminded himself, but he was growing sick of protecting the Capitol. On a day like today, what was there worth protecting?

He looked over at Sally in the dimming light, and was surprised to see tears pricking at her eyes. She caught him looking, and contorted her face into a look of derision. "What?" she sniffed, but her bravado was cracking around the edges.

"I'm sorry about Jonathan," he said gently.

"Yeah, well. It had to happen at some point," she said bluntly, determinedly looking anywhere but at Greg. "Sorry about…"

"Sherry. Her name was Sherry," Greg said. It was… a strange feeling. Sherry was gone. A week ago, he had not known of her existence, and now he was painfully aware of her death. He wondered if he ought to be crying, but he felt strangely removed from it all. He hadn't known her very well, but he ached inside all the same.

"Yeah, her." Sally's voice wobbled on the last word.

"Sally?"

"Shut up," she said fiercely. She swayed slightly, and he grabbed her arm. The berries she had been holding tumbled to the ground.

"You need to sit down."

"Get off me!" she barked. He complied, and she sat down heavily. He did the same. They sat side by side, and after a few breaths Sally crumpled. Her head crashed into her folded arms, and she sobbed. They were ugly, noisy wails, and Greg found himself knowing what to do without really knowing why. He threw an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to him.

"Get- off-"she began to say.

"Give it a rest," he told her firmly. Miraculously, she consented. She turned her head into his shoulder and he felt tears wetting his shirt. A fresh wave of guilt broke over him at his lack of emotion to Sherry's death. It hurt to think of her, but nothing more. He secretly wondered if Jonathon had been more to Sally than she had let on, but wasn't stupid enough to suggest it. He stayed quiet and rubbed gentle circles across Sally's shoulders as she cried and cried.

After a few minutes, she suddenly fell silent and dried up, as though her eyes had only just realised just what they were doing. She pulled away, dragging her sleeve across her eyes roughly.

"That didn't happen, okay?" she said, and he nodded. "I'm going to sleep now."

"Okay, sleep well."

"Yeah, whatever. See you in the morning, idiot."

Greg thought there might have been just a hint of affection in the last word, but he couldn't be sure.

* * *

><p>When John awoke, the sun was halfway through rising. He had slept under a cluster of rocks the night before, which he had managed to push together to form a kind of den. There was very little space under the canopy of stone, but there had been just enough room for him to slide in. He stretched, back aching from the uncomfortable ground, and headed to the river.<p>

He splashed his face with the cold water, and washed some of the dirt off of his hands. His stomach was shouting at him, and he returned to his lair. About thirty minutes away from where he had slept, the water was deeper and a trickle of fish swum backwards and forwards. He had caught two after much trial and error (catching fish with his hands was not a skill he'd ever tried to develop), and still had one left. It was even light enough that he could cook it with no huge safety risks.

It wasn't easy to get a spark without matches, but he'd spent a lot of time on the relevant station in training. It only took around twenty minutes for him to have a small fire quietly puttering away. John felt justified in taking a moment of pride over that. He had water, and food, and shelter, and fire. He was in a pretty good position, all things considered.

After he had swallowed the last of the fish, he made the decision to go and fetch more. There was no point in putting it off until he was hungry or weak, and it gave him something to do if nothing else. By following the river, he soon found himself back in the same place, though he flinched when he saw the state of it.

A new angry, dark red stain soaked the ground, though there was no body to be seen. Either somebody had been injured, or worse, and he had missed the cannon-shot overnight. He tried to simply avoid the sticky red liquid, but the smell was impossible to ignore. He debated going somewhere else, but firmly told himself that there was no point. He would just have to get through it. His fingers closed tighter around his gun, a comfort blanket of sorts.

It was only his determined effort to _not _look at the blood that made him notice the marking. A short distance away from the blood smear, three letters were carved into the mud. John frowned. Had they been there yesterday? If he was honest, he hadn't been looking, and the marks were small and easy to miss. He bent down and traced over them with his nail. _LXX. _What the hell was LXX? He didn't like the sound of the 'XX'; it seemed ominous, like a warning. But he'd drunk the water and eaten the fish, and he felt fine. Nothing from the river had smelt strange or tasted odd. It was probably safe, he decided.

John was lucky. He straightened up just as the girl behind him swung, so the branch only smacked against his back rather than cracking open his skull. Her strike was weakened, his sudden movement throwing her off. He cried out in pain, but was able to spin around to find her raising the branch above her head, snarling. His bullet caught her through the throat before she had time to bring it down.

He watched as if in slow motion as the wood fell from her hand, forgotten. Her eyes widened and she brought a hand to her throat, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the wound. Rivers of blood poured down her sleeves and dripped off the fabric, mixing with the drying death already at their feet. She moved her mouth as if trying to speak but the words would not come out and she jerked violently in place, lips still attempting to form useless shapes. Her body gave in and she dropped, limbs still shuddering, eyes still looking straight into his. The cannon blast sounded as her body landed, the ground shaking with the impact of what he had just done.

John couldn't move.

A bird in the tree emitted a single shrill note, a warning. He couldn't stop looking at the body, the smell of blood forcing itself into his nose and under his eyes and down his throat until he was filled with it, saturated. Without warning, somebody pulled the lights from his head and he couldn't see, immobilised, the world spinning out of control around him. He heard the hovercraft materialise and he was finally able to free his limbs, to snap out of it.

He tried to run from the noise but stumbled and fell, smashing face-first into the dirt and mud with a sharp cry. The gun flew out of his hand and he made no effort to go after it. He rolled onto his side and his vision cleared in time to see metal jaws descending to close around a victim, and whilst he knew it was for her, the girl with the branch, the claw seemed to leer at him. _I know what you've done_, it grinned, opening wide to show its teeth. _I know, I know, I know._

John scrabbled away, never taking his eyes off it, and the claw swallowed the girl's body whole except one pale arm. It dangled almost comically, crimson torrents far too bright against her white skin. It was only then that he realised just where he had fallen. He looked down slowly and blood stared back, only a breath away. His hands were coated with the bright new blood of the girl and the old, rusty remembrance of a previous death, entwining together on his skin. He touched a shaking hand to his face and felt the same mixture underneath his fingertips; slick against his face, his mouth, his eyes.

John vomited without warning, violently and painfully. All that talk, for what? All of that talk of morals and ethics and right-or-wrong and at the first sign of danger, he pulled the trigger. He pulled the trigger and watched a girl die. A girl with a family and friends at home in District Eight, oh God, in District _Eight,_ where somebody he cared about probably cared about her.

John ran.

He ran with no sense of direction or meaning, running aimlessly now he had finally gotten his muscles to work. They pushed him onwards and he ran, and ran, and ran. His thoughts were spiralling out of control and worse than the disgust or the guilt was the truth, the horrible truth, that he had not felt fear or distress. He had raised the gun and pulled the trigger and for one terrible, hideous second, it had felt good. The rush, the adrenaline, the finally fucking fighting back against something that caused him pain- it had felt _right._

There were various pods of shelter clustered along the river, and he found himself in one of the tree-based ones without even realising. Heart hammering, he turned to the left and found himself surrounded by forest; the same when he turned to the right. No no no, he was back, he was back in the woods with the trees that reached for him and would not let him go. This was not what he wanted, this was not what was supposed to happen.

He twisted frantically, but everywhere around him was the same, a never-ending army of bark and branches rushing to snare him. He tried to continue running but a thorned vine tore at his ankle and endless twigs scratched like needles across his arms, his hands, his face. The trees pressed in on him, never-ending, pinning him where he was with no sense of escape. He wondered what Harry must think of him now: whether she was remembering Clara's killer and silently grouping the two of them together, linked incurably by blood spilled.

Oh, and it had all been so placid, so sweet, so meaningless. Walk around a forest, cook some food- he had really started to wonder if he could just wait the whole thing out. He laughed out loud hysterically at the thought of it. Welcome to reality, welcome to the Hunger Games, welcome to the end of everything you thought you knew. They had told John about the threat of dying- but what about the threat of killing? What about what that did to you?

When he came across the hollowed-out log, wide and lying in a thicket of bushes, he didn't think twice. He squirmed into it desperately, trying to escape the woods that threatened to swallow him whole, that saw the death upon his hands and _knew. _It was dim and musty and damp, but it felt like a bunker in a war he did not understand and so he stayed in place.

He swore that the bark was moving, colours bursting out of it that whispered, voices, voices he knew and voices he did not know. He heard his name. He heard the girl's name, for although he could not hear or remember it but he knew it was_ hers._ It briefly crossed his mind that he was probably going insane. It briefly crossed his mind that this was probably no bad thing, considering the circumstances.

When he awoke, he was not sure if he had passed out or if he fallen asleep. It didn't really matter. It wouldn't change a thing.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N- Thank you so much for the reviews on last chapter. I'll try and get an update up next Monday, but it's exam period at college, so things might be a bit sporadic for a while.**

**Meanwhile, on 'ever increasingly huge chapters', here's this.**

* * *

><p>The second day in the arena had arrived, passed, and was now fading out. Sherlock still refused to believe that he was wrong about the location of the water source; he knew the right place, he just didn't know where to find it.<p>

And damnit, it should be simpler than this! How useless was he when he couldn't even get to a damn river? He pushed a hand to his head, frowning. He was getting irritable from the lack of food and water. He had eaten handfuls of berries where he could, but there was only so much of a person that fruit could fill. Already Sherlock could feel a headache forming, droning menacingly in the back of his brain. He could feel his thoughts becoming slower, fuzzier, and that terrified him. It was true that he had always had a tendency to forget to eat when busy, but his 'busy' didn't usually didn't involve walking twelve hours a day with no water.

He was sure by now that the forest had been designed to confuse and to trap. The trees were more than similar; they were identical. When you looked closely there were only three different structures to the trunks, the same three trees over and over. The rough terrain underfoot was less predictable, but contained no clear markers to let him note where he had been and where he had to go.

Sherlock made an attempt to map out the arena in his head. There was the clearing in the centre which held the Cornucopia, surrounded by a dense ring of trees, and then whatever lay beyond. The mental diagram was of little use. Even if he made it out of the forest, he might be on the wrong side of the circle, miles from any drop of liquid.

Sherlock did not want to sleep for two nights in a row. He never had in District Eight, and it seemed silly to break a habit now. He continued through the forest under torchlight, the sense of preservation that had acted up earlier now quietly lying down and accepting that some risks were worth taking. But as hard as he tried to repress it, he was hungry. He was thirsty. His legs ached from the constant walking, and he could nearly scream with frustration. Every turn, the same. Every time he felt some hope, it was crushed.

Two more cannons had fired over the day. The anthem begin to play, and whilst he didn't stop moving, he looked up to the sky to see who it had been. The boy from Four was first- hardly surprising, he was only twelve. The next face, however, was Serra's. He missed a step and stumbled, cursing under his breath.

Serra was gone. He hadn't liked her, but she had still been a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. It had been going to happen at some point, though, and it wasn't really startling that it had been this early on. She hadn't been particularly skilled or experienced.

The initial shock began to fade, and he picked up his pace again. It was the only thing he could do- there was no point in dwelling on what had already happened. Combined with the four tributes from the first day, that made six dead so far. He wondered how many would soon die not in attack or defence, but from the absence of basic essentials. He wondered if he would be one of them.

* * *

><p>"Let's go over this one last time. What am I going to do?"<p>

"Distract him."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Steal the food."

"Good girl. Any questions?"

"Yes. Quite a few, actually."

"Oh, darling, I do wish you wouldn't doubt me so much. Go on then, if you must."

"Why are we doing this? Who is he? Is this dangerous? How are you going to distract him?"

"Molly, breathe. One- we need food and it's much easier to _take _than to hunt. Two- his name's Anderson. He's from my district. He's harmless. Three- oh, almost certainly."

"You said he was harmless!"

"I lied. And four- well, it'll go something like this."

"Irene!" Molly hissed frantically, but it was too late. Her ally was already sashaying out from the rocks they had flattened themselves behind. Irene moved silently towards the boy, who sat with his back to them. In front of him lay a pile of food packages- it looked like he had gotten away with nearly all of the resources from the Cornucopia. Irene paused and ghosted a hand across the back of his neck. He let out a high pitched shriek, flailing around.

"Anderson," she said smoothly. "It's so good to see you." Irene somehow moved to position herself so that when Anderson got to his feet, he stood with his back to Molly. Molly began to carefully slip through the maze of rocks, hiding behind the larger ones to ensure he didn't see. The sun was setting, so the lighting was on her side, but the spear clutched in Anderson's hand made her stomach flip.

"Irene." He narrowed his eyes at her. "What are you doing here?"

Irene shrugged. "What are any of us doing here?"

"Don't get funny with me, Adler."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she murmured, moving a little closer to him. Molly was almost level with them now; close enough to hear Irene's low tone, words piercingly clear in the quiet evening air.

"I mean it," he warned her. "I don't want you messing with me."

"I'd do a lot of things to you, Anderson, but that isn't one of them." Irene ran her gaze slowly over his body, and it was almost impressive how quickly the annoyance dissolved from his face.

"What? I-"

"Shh," Irene purred, curling her hand around his bicep and stroking his skin gently with her fingers. "Oh, you're _strong._" Irene broke off and chuckled. "Sorry. I get… distracted."

"That's- erm, I mean- that's fine." He raised his shoulders and deepened his voice, presumably to impress her with his manliness. Molly did have to feel some degree of pity for him.

"Do you know where the river is? I've gotten _ever _so dirty. I could do with a bath," And then, leaning in as if to impart some great secret, she whispered "and I need somebody to keep my clothes safe."

He swallowed hard, and nodded too vigorously. "Yes. Okay. Yes, I can do that."

"Oh, good," she said happily, and turned away from him slightly. "Show me the way, then? The faster we get there, the longer we'll have."

And Molly had to stifle a laugh as he nearly _dragged _her away from the patch of rocks.

She took her chance and darted forwards, stuffing armfuls of packages into the cloth bag Irene had 'acquired'. There was a pot of stew, several bread rolls, a few apples, a bottle filled with water, a pack of jerky, crackers… Molly wondered how he had gotten away with so much. She had run too quickly to see what had happened at the Cornucopia, but now she wondered how many of those cannons had fired because of him. She felt a sudden chill pass through her, fearful for her ally's safety. He had taken the spear with him.

Molly wanted to run after them, to check that everything was okay. Instead, she forced herself to stick to their plan. The last thing they needed was her overreacting and screwing things up. She finished packing up the resources and, bag bulging, hurried back into the cover of the rocks. The sun was setting, and Molly didn't have a good sense of direction at the best of times. She was relieved when their hollowed-out bush sprung into vision.

They had spent most of their day roaming up and down the arena. Molly's prediction seemed right so far- the river was very, very long. They hadn't strayed too far- the shrub was their safe base, an invisible cord around their waists always pulling them back. They had gathered berries, caught fish, and Irene had taken a pack of ammunition from the girl from Two as she slept, for a gun neither of them had.

"There's no point in wasting a chance," she had told Molly. "If you can gain the upper hand in any way at all, you should."

Molly stashed the food in various shrubs surrounding their hideout, before clambering in. The pattern was Irene's design. She had taken a pack of throwing knives taken from a tribute the day beforehand and hidden each of the blades in a different place: it was easier for a person to rob one store than to rob fifteen. The only exception to their system was Molly's bow and arrows, which she kept strapped to her back at all times. Just in case.

"Miss me?" a voice sung, and Irene's hand pushed aside the branches covering the entrance to the nest. Molly scrambled out.

"Hello," she smiled, relieved to see no injuries. "What did you do?"

"Oh, the usual. I let him kiss me for a while."

"And then…?"

"I hit him in the crotch and I ran."

"Irene!" Molly burst out laughing.

"What?"

"You said he was dangerous! It's so risky to hurt him like that."

"I can assure you that he doesn't have much to-"

"_Don't_," Molly giggled. Irene joined in. For a bizarre moment, Molly felt almost like a normal girl, having conversation with her older sister. It felt good.

"Who next, then?" Irene smiled devilishly. Molly stopped laughing.

"But we have enough food now," she said, confused.

"Oh, but we could have more, Molly. Wouldn't it be good to have more? And we could deal with some very interesting people to get it. Like, I don't know… the man from Eight. Have you met him?"

"Sherlock?" Molly said immediately, then blushed. "Um, yes. I have."

"What did you think?"

"He seems very… clever."

"Brainy is the new sexy," Irene smirked. "But we could go after him. He's probably along the river somewhere. That's where we're all meant to end up, after all," she shrugged. Molly didn't follow.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"They wanted us to come here."

"What makes you say that?" Irene sighed, and sat down on the ground, gesturing for Molly to do the same. She obeyed, and waited expectantly.

"There's water, food- and shelter," Irene explained. "A lot of shelter. Look at it. There are trees, bushes, rocks, caves… each could hold a tribute or two, and there are enough to hold us all."

"But why would they make it that…" Molly was unable to find the right word.

"Simple?"

Molly nodded gratefully. "It's like all twenty-four of us could be on here and never have to meet. I don't understand. Why would they do that?"

"What was the most important piece of advice you were given in training, Molly?"

Molly blinked. "Um, to find water, I suppose."

"Exactly. People who find the river live, people who don't die. If they can sort all the people who live into the same area, then it's bound to make something exciting happen. You need the pods to live, but any one you go into could hold a tribute. Nowhere is safe."

"But what if everybody just stayed in their own 'pod'? If nobody did anything?"

"Then the world would be a much softer place. In my district, Molly, winning these Games gives you every luxury you could ever dream of. Jewels, admirers, but more than that. It gives you _power_. People want power. If you offer people the choice between power and cowering in a bush, not many people will take the second option."

"I would," Molly said. "Every time."

"Then you're weak."

"Then I'm_ good_," Molly said forcefully. Irene looked at her, eyes sparking dangerously in the moonlight. There was no trace of humour left hanging between them now.

"You stole food, Molly Hooper, just because I told you to. You watched me take weapons from a sleeping child and didn't say a word. What does that tell you about your goodness?"

"That was because we needed them," Molly objected. "We needed them to survive."

"And they didn't?"

"I… they'll find more," Molly said uneasily. "You said yourself that there's lots of food around here."

"So if there's lots of food here anyway, why did you take somebody else's?"

"Because you said I should," Molly said desperately.

"And why did you follow what I said?"

"Because- because I trusted you."

"No, you didn't. You don't think it was right."

"Well, then I didn't want to argue with you!"

"So you'd rather go along with something you don't agree with than make a fuss? Oh, darling, would you please take a moment to consider what that says about you?"

Molly did. She did not like the answer that she found.

"I… I didn't want to disappoint you," Molly said timidly. Irene softened, but only slightly.

"There's a difference, Molly, between being good and being a doormat. Maybe it's time for you decide which one you are."

Apologies tried to rush off of Molly's tongue, but she bit them back and nodded.

"I'll take the first guard shift," she said, staring straight ahead. She heard the rustle of branches as Irene climbed back into their den, but she did not turn around to look.

* * *

><p>On the dawn of the third day in the arena, John woke up with his mouth dry and his stomach begging for food. He hadn't moved from the spot since he had squirrelled himself away in the fallen tree twenty-four hours beforehand. Whenever he considered leaving the sanctuary the hollowed out bark offered him, he would taste blood in his mouth and his stomach would twist with fear. <em>No. Not yet.<em>

He wasn't sure that he deserved to eat or to drink anyway. He vacillated between fury at himself for being so _weak_- wasn't he supposed to be a _contender_ in these Games?- and pure, nauseating guilt at what he had done, at how easily he had done it. It was true that he did not know who he was, but he had not thought it would be this. A man who shot first and broke down later.

He had spent the day before in a kind of madness, floating in and out of sleep, dreams not ceasing just because he was awake. Whenever he tried to plan what to do next or to try and think through things logically, his thoughts dissolved. The harder he tried to hang onto them, the quicker they skittered away.

Every now and again he had heard noises in the forest surrounding him; leaves crunching underfoot, twigs snapping. He wasn't sure if they were tributes or animals, and he had no desire to check. He stared blankly ahead as the world outside slowly faded from blackness to light.

He didn't hear the knocking above his head at first. It was only when it stopped for a minute or so and then came back, stronger, that he jerked into awareness.

"Hello?" a voice asked timidly. "Hello?"

John held himself in place, silent and totally still.

"John?" the voice asked, and he clamped his hands over his ears. _Go away._

"John, are you okay?" The words were muffled but still audible. He whined slightly in the back of this throat. Either this was somebody here to hurt him, in which case he was in no state to fight them off, or this was somebody trying to ally with him. That felt even harder to deal with, somehow.

"I'm going to come in there," the voice said determinedly, and suddenly the end of the log was blocked by a pair of legs. The tribute crouched down, and John caught a glimpse of a face out of the corner of his eye. It took him a few minutes to place the face.

"John," Sarah said, sounding relieved. "I thought it was you. Why didn't you reply?"

John still didn't reply. He didn't want to explain.

"Why don't you come out into the light? It looks really cramped in there." She left a gap for John to fill in, but he did not. He looked at her, and she flinched.

"Oh my God, John, are you okay? Come out, please," she asked, and extended her arm. Slim fingers closed around his arm, and he looked at them like the touch was alien. "Come on, just for a few minutes."

He crawled out, guided by her gently insistent grip. The daylight hurt his eyes, and he screwed his face up. Sarah smiled encouragingly at him. He was reminded of somebody trying to coax a scared puppy out of a corner.

"The river isn't very far away. We can get you cleaned up, and get you something to drink."

"No," John said, and his voice was loud and ugly. Sarah neatly set down the small metal flask she was holding, and pulled a handful of leaves from a nearby bush. She began to wipe at her fingers with them, waiting to see if he elaborated. He didn't.

"Okay, so you don't want to go to the river. Right." She paused "Why not?"

"I'm not going there," he said unsteadily. "I can't, Sarah. Okay?"

"Well, I have this bottle, but it's empty- so you're going to die of dehydration if you don't," she said, letting the leaves drop and crossing her arms. "I'm not having that on my conscience. Come on."

"I'm not doing it," he said, but he could already feel his resolve beginning to weaken. He did not want to stay in the forest. The idea of going to the river _hurt_, but he couldn't shake off his childish claustrophobia. Getting out of the intimidating maze of trees was appealing.

"Okay, so just come most of the way," Sarah bargained with him. "You don't have to go all the way to the river. You can stop a little bit beforehand. Okay?"

"Okay," John found himself agreeing, and she smiled.

"It's not very far away. Just follow me." He walked a few steps behind her, and she seemed comfortable to chatter away to him despite his lack of response. He tried to focus on the conversation, but his mind kept hazing in and out and her words slipped away. He was only jerked out of it when she stopped suddenly, and he almost banged into her.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" she accused. He smiled guiltily. "Come on," she said briskly. "One sided conversations are really boring, okay?"

"I don't feel like talking," he said, and he thought he saw fear flash in her eyes. He realised that he still had blood on his face, coating his eyelids, his lips. He wondered where she thought it had come from. But the wariness dissolved almost instantly, and Sarah looked mildly cross.

"Well, I don't feel like being quiet. So let's talk. What's your name?"

"You know my name," he said in confusion.

"Yes, but let's pretend I don't."

"Sarah-"

"Humour me."

"John."

"John…?"

"Watson."

"Middle names?"

"Hamish."

"John Hamish Watson. Nice name. What district are you from?" He noticed for the first time that she was brushing her hands against her legs, fluttering them backwards and forwards like butterflies. He wondered if it was a nervous tic; if she'd always had it, or if it was arena-born.

"Twelve."

"Who did you come with?"

"Molly Hooper."

"Did you know her before?"

"Yes."

"Where from?"

And slowly, piece by piece, Sarah lured facts out of him. He lived with his older sister. He trained in healing. His favourite colour was grey, which she found funny, and he preferred winter to summer. John's answers were monosyllabic at first, but gradually opened up. Going over the basic layout of who he was and what he did with his time helped, somehow. It gave him something to hang onto, an identity to claim back as his own. It was a little like an outline of a person that he could apply to himself, even if he didn't know quite what colours lay inside.

By the time the river came into sight, he found that he could stay focused on what Sarah was saying for several minutes at a time. If he started to slip away, he could snap himself back. _This is where I am. This is who I am._

After all, hadn't he been through worse? His mother had died. His father had died. Clara- somebody John himself had had feelings for- had died. He had grown up in a care home before moving in with his alcoholic sister. He had been picked for the Hunger Games. For the first time, he felt like he truly understood what Harry had been trying to say. There had to come a point where you were proud of merely surviving, regardless of how you did it or who you were as a result. He moved his fingers to the familiar strip of rag around his wrist and pinched it between his fingers.

John could feel a hard, protective shell reforming over his cut-up insides. The things that had happened to him- wasn't he good at pushing it all back? John had trained himself not have feelings; well, not to show them, at least. He was the strong one, the good one, the brave one. He had had to be- for Harry. Looking over at Sarah, he felt himself naturally wanting to fill the same role, to be the protector rather than somebody in need of protection. Yes, he had done an awful thing, cut a jagged wound across his soul- but if he was damned if anybody was going to get close enough to find that out.

So when Sarah took a hold of his arm and firmly drew him towards the edge of the water, he didn't refuse. As he moved forwards his vision flickered with rusty blood, painted thickly up the banks.

_Stop it_, he told himself firmly, and was pleasantly surprised when the image faded. They were at a different part of the river. There had been no death here.

He pulled his arm away from Sarah, but only to walk forwards of his own accord. John pushed the fear down, down, to somewhere deep inside that wasn't worth naming. He washed the blood from his face and his hands and didn't flinch when he saw the river flashing with red. They moved a short distance upstream and both drunk straight from the river. Sarah filled up her empty flask and produced a pack of crackers she had taken from the Cornucopia. He found pale pink berries from a nearby bush and they ate their food, John feeling more human with each bite he swallowed.

"So what do we do now?" John asked when they had finished.

"Well," Sarah said, dipping her hands into the river to wash off berry juice. "I have a kind of mission, actually."

"Oh?" he asked, lips quirking upwards. "Go on."

"I'm going to help people. I'm going to go out, and give food or water or whatever I can to anybody I come across. I trained in healing for a while too, you know," she confessed shyly.

"That's… that's good of you, Sarah, but what if they don't want that help? We aren't supposed to be here to heal- if you go near some of those tributes, they'll kill you. They won't even think twice." _I should know._

"I know that," she said.

"So you're prepared to commit some kind of saintly suicide?" he said in disbelief. "To let them kill you so that they can live? Christ, Sarah, don't you think you're worth more than that?"

Sarah looked at him, still scrubbing at her fingers in the water. "I don't know what happened to you, John, and I'm not going to ask. But I came here with a boy named Carl. Did you know him?"

"He was the little kid, right?" John asked. Sarah nodded.

"I watched a boy- the boy from One- stab him through the gut with a spear. Over, and over, and then when he didn't die quickly enough, he drowned him. He pushed his head into the river and he held it there and he drowned him, right there, in front of me. And I didn't do anything. I didn't even move. I just stood and watched as he struggled and thrashed and then he went limp. There was blood everywhere. I can't get it off my hands. See?"

Sarah extended a pale hand towards him, rivulets of water running off her fingers. It was spotless.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad or to make you relapse back into whatever world you were slipping into. I am telling you this because I want you to understand."

"You're trying to redeem yourself," he said slowly, working it out.

"It makes sense, doesn't it? If I can help enough people, maybe it can make up for what I didn't do."

"Let me come with you," he said. She looked at him like he was insane.

"Did you hear any of what I said? If you were attacked, I wouldn't do a thing. I would be useless to you."

"I shot a girl," John said, and the words hung like bullets in the air. "I shot her, and she died. I did too much, and you didn't do enough. That balances out, don't you think?"

Sarah, to her credit, didn't visibly react. "I-"

"Besides," John said. "I could do with some redemption." Because even with his shell firmly fixed in place, his feelings compressed and calmed and prepared to play this game and think about it later, he still felt the blood on his hands. When Sarah dipped hers into the river yet again, he followed suit.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N- To ****everybody who favourited, alerted or reviewed: thank you so, so much! It makes my day, honestly.**

****Just to reiterate: do not read while eating.****

* * *

><p>Sherlock was dying.<p>

He accepted this fact without question or struggle. He was a very intelligent man; intelligent enough to understand the signs of dehydration. It was their third day in the arena, and late afternoon. Three days without water, with minimal food, with very little shelter? He was not arrogant enough to assume he would survive much longer.

He was out of the forest by now, trudging across fields. He thought that he was going the right way, but he'd probably never get the chance to find out. That annoyed him more than the idea of dying; the idea that he would never know if he was right or wrong. It was only that, that drive to be right, that kept him putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually, even that failed. He tripped on a rock and when he tried to push himself back up, he found that his body was no longer willing to cooperate.

_Get up! _he screamed at himself internally. _Get up!_

_Give up_, his mind whispered back.

From where he lay, he could see more marks carved into the ground a short distance away. Sharp crosses and lines. He was intrigued but his mind wouldn't stay in one place long enough to make sense of them. It hurt to think. He closed his eyes instead and listened to the light birdsong begin around him. He smiled. He was right. There was life here- there was water nearby. He wouldn't be able to get there, but that was okay. He had done it right, he had worked it out. Everything was okay.

Sherlock was asleep when the first drop fell. He had been passing in and out of sleep for a little while, as though his body didn't quite dare to die. Whenever he felt himself drifting too far, something within him gave a sharp tug and pulled him back into consciousness. _Oh no you don't,_ it said firmly. _We have unfinished business here._

_What? _he questioned of himself unhappily. He was tired. He had given up fighting. His head ached like a world was cracking open inside of it, and the light around him was too bright. He was tired. Colours and shadows swam in front of his vision; things that he knew couldn't be there, but were. He was tired- he was so very tired. Why wasn't he sleeping? He closed his eyes again.

_The markings,_ his mind sung smugly, knowing it had him caught. How could he die without knowing what they were? He couldn't. He just couldn't. _Not yet._ And so he continued to sleep and to wake, never going far enough to tumble off the edge.

It took a while for the rain to wake him. It grew out of nowhere, from drought to downpour in a few seconds. Eventually it stirred him, the cold liquid seeping into his closed mouth and making him twist awake, coughing violently. Sherlock forced his aching eyelids open and saw a dip in the ground, only a few centimetres away and rapidly filling with rainwater. He extended an arm and dug his nails into the ground, dragging the deadweight of his form towards it. It took much longer than it should have done, but the rain was so heavy that the indent became a puddle in seconds. He lowered his head to the gathering pool and drank, and drank, and drank. With every drop he felt better, more alert. He collapsed back onto the dirt and let the water beat down on him, breathing heavy and shaky.

His thoughts were slow to return, cogs catching and snagging as they tried to resume work. He reached through his bag with shaking, fumbling hands. It was only when he caught sight of the iodine that the crashing realisation dawned. _Oh._ He looked at the water in the pool hesitantly. Specks of dirt floated in it, a few crushed leaves swirling at the edges. It would be a shame to die of cholera after coming this far. He sniffed the iodine delicately, before swallowing a few drops straight up with another mouthful of rainwater. It was certainly not how it was intended to be taken, but it would be an interesting experiment if nothing else.

He filled the bottle from the pool and the rain, remembering to add the iodine and wait this time around. He had never really taken much interest in time- the world moved around him, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly. Now, with no clocks or guidance as to when it was, he had to count the seconds in his head, reaching sixty thirty times over.

It was only when fully hydrated that his thinking reached its usual capacity, and he remembered. _The mark. _Stupid, stupid! He pawed at the water covering the dent in the ground, but the carving had dissolved into mud. He ran his fingers over where it had been, but all he could feel was the slippery earth. Well, then there was no point in remaining there any longer.

He finished the flask before testing out his legs. He could walk. Good. He filled the flask, added iodine, and left.

Sherlock reached the river within a few hours. The water was clear and, judging by smell and taste, wouldn't require treating. He heard a cannon somewhere in the distance. He doubted it would be the last of the day. This far in, those who had been lucky enough to find the river would live. Those who hadn't would die of dehydration or of diseases from the dirty rain. He had been, as always, too stubborn to fit into either category.

* * *

><p>"Did you find anything?"<p>

"Am I carrying anything? Idiot," Sally snapped.

"Well, I did tell you-"

"Don't you dare start saying 'I told you so'."

"Well, I did!" he objected. "There's no food here, Sally. At least, there's nowhere near enough."

It was true. The few berries the bushes around them held were gone, eaten within the first twenty-four hours. Neither of them had gotten food from the Cornucopia, and there weren't even birds in the trees. What had seemed like a great place to stay when they found it on day one had already seemed like a dead end by day two.

So Greg had proposed that they move on, and look for a new place to stay. Sally had been resistant.

"We don't know what else is there," she had said. "We're better off staying here."

They had enough water, but there were no fish in the river. Greg tried to remember the last time they had eaten. There had been the berries after they learned about Jonathon and Sherry, and then the rest of the fruit the next morning when they still thought there were more nearby. So that was… a day and a half? Greg had gone longer with less food, but it never got any easier.

"Things aren't going to get better, Sally," he said almost pleadingly. "They aren't. There's nothing here."

"Maybe if we just look nearby-" she began uncertainly.

"But we have! There's nothing. You know there isn't."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sally said. "I'm not. It's not safe."

"What, and staying here is?"

"They killed Jonathon, Greg, and he was much, much stronger than me. Than either of us. I'm not moving anywhere."

Maybe it was the almost childlike note that had crept into her voice, or maybe it was because he didn't think she'd ever used his first name before, but he relented.

"Okay. We'll stay here. We can't have looked through all the bushes nearby."

She nodded, back in control. "Finally. So let's get back to work and quit wasting time."

Greg returned to the shrubs he had been searching for fruit, beginning to comb every branch again. If he had checked the cluster of bushes once, he had checked it a thousand times.

* * *

><p>Molly watched as the Capitol seal appeared in the sky, obscured slightly through the canopy of branches.<p>

"Time for the nightly show," Irene hummed from outside the bush. Molly didn't climb out to watch; she didn't really want to see their faces. Irene was on guard duty, as she didn't seem to have any issues with watching the pictures flash up. It was the end of the third day, and there had been eight causalities overall.

The idea that eight hearts had stopped beating and that eight pairs of eyes had closed forever seemed overwhelming. Molly found herself struck with a strange, twisting terror when she realised that this would be considered a low fatality count. For the viewers at home, there had been disappointingly little death.

"The girl from Five… and the girl from Nine," Irene announced. "Anybody you knew?"

"No," Molly replied, as the light faded away and they were back into darkness. "You?"

"No, but I hardly made many friends during training."

"Really? I would have thought…" Molly trailed off.

"I have been told that I'm rather intimidating." Molly had to smile.

"I can see that."

Molly was getting ready to go to sleep when Irene's voice came again from outside the bush.

"I'm not angry at you, you know," she said indifferently.

"I know," Molly replied.

"Good."

There was a pause. "Why not?" Molly asked.

"Why should I be?"

"Because of- well, because of yesterday, and the- oh, you know!"

"I do love it when you get agitated. It's like a robin trying to roar."

"Sorry," Molly said immediately.

"Why are you apologising?"

"Because there's no point in being angry," she said. "It just makes everybody around you feel as bad as you do."

"Oh, Molly. You really are such a sweet and repressed little thing," Irene sighed. "I'm not angry with you because there's nothing to be angry about. You don't need to do things you don't want to."

"Really?" Molly asked doubtfully.

"Well, it worked well enough today, didn't it?"

Molly had spent the day catching fish from the river and plucking fruit from bushes. Irene had disappeared for four hours and returned with another knife, an empty water bottle and a foldaway tent.

"Yes," Molly smiled. "It did."

It hadn't. Not really. Things had been awkward and stilted when they spoke, Molly still feeling hideously guilty for letting Irene down. She hadn't dared asked where Irene had gotten the supplies, but somehow she doubted they were handed over willingly. Irene hadn't asked for Molly's assistance this time around. A part of Molly was glad. Another part- a silly part- felt forgotten, unwanted.

She wasn't shocked when she woke up the following morning to find that she was alone. Not really.

"Irene?" she called out unsteadily, but nobody replied. She was fairly confident that she would have been woken up if a cannon had fired, which could only really mean one thing. When she checked the surrounding bushes, her suspicion was confirmed. The knives were gone, the bottle was gone, the tent was gone.

All that remained of the food was stacked neatly together in one of the smaller bushes. There was a small pot of Molly's favourite stew, a sealed pack of crackers, and the small pile of berries that Molly had so carefully collected. Next to the pot, somebody had scratched a rough heart shape into the dirt with their nail.

Alliances couldn't last forever, Molly supposed- especially when she was no longer of use to Irene. She was surplus to requirements, just another mouth to feed. Why would anybody keep her around?

_Stop that_, she told herself firmly. She fixed a smile back onto her face in case any cameras were nearby. _There's no point in being miserable._

"Hello, day four!" she said out loud, as if chatting happily to herself. "Let's see what you've got."

* * *

><p>Henry Knight was doing perfectly well by himself, thank you very much. Yes, maybe he had cried (just a little) when he had learned about Carl, but that didn't make him weak. He had just been shocked, that was all.<p>

He had been hoping that he would find Carl in the arena and they could ally together like they had talked about. Henry was two years older than Carl, though, so obviously he would have been in charge most of the time. That would have been okay, he thought. Carl was- had been- a really good swimmer, and he had promised to teach Henry if they got the chance.

But that didn't mean that he couldn't do it by himself. Just because he was fourteen didn't mean that he was weak or that he needed protecting, no matter what his mentors might have implied. He talked to the other tributes because he _liked _them, not because he was scared.

Lia in particularly had been really horrible about that. He had only been trying to be nice to her- she was his mentor, after all- and she had simpered to people about his 'need for a replacement mother figure- you know, as the poor poppet only has his father'. It was rude, and not even a little bit true. Well, his mother was dead, but Henry couldn't even remember her- she had gotten sick when he was only a baby.

He wondered if his father was watching now, and if he'd be proud that his son was doing well. Henry had been amazed when he came across the river- felt like the luckiest boy in the world. He had slept by its side for the last few nights, not quite trusting himself to find it again if he left. But there was only so much sitting on a bank that a person could do, and so he had decided to see what else was out there. The third day in the arena had been drawing to a close when he left, and it was the morning of the fourth by the time he came across the cave.

"Hello?" he called, sticking his head in. His words bounced off the walls, but nobody moved in the darkness or made a sound. The entrance was blocked by several large rocks, but there was a gap just big enough for somebody small to climb though. He worked his way in, holding back a yelp when he banged his elbow against a stone. It was cool inside the cave, and dark. In the dimmed light, he couldn't tell how long it stretched on for.

The ground was soft, and Henry sat on it. He leant against one of the rocky walls, and looked around. It took time, but eventually his eyes adjusted. The cave carried on in a long tunnel to his right, with the gap he had climbed through to his left. He couldn't see what was down the passageway, but could make out the bleary shapes of more rocks.

Henry yawned. He had been walking all night. He returned to the exit of the cave, and examined the rocks nearby. Should he put some up against the opening to stop other people from coming in? Or would that just make them think he had something worth hiding? Could he even _lift _any of the rocks? He managed to pick up one of the smaller ones, but found he had no idea what to do with it. He tossed it awkwardly to the side. The patch of ground underneath was now revealed, and he leant in curiously.

_LXXII_

Somebody had cut that into the ground. _Lexi? _he thought to himself stupidly. The first person to come to mind was Lorena- the girl he had come with- but she called herself Lori, not Lexi. It wasn't somebody's name, then. He thought that he had seen similar things before- maybe somewhere in the Capitol- but he couldn't be sure.

Henry yawned again. He wondered if he should be afraid, but there was nothing inherently menacing about the carving- it was just _there_. Maybe it'd make more sense after he'd had a few hours' sleep. Deciding he would worry about it when he woke up, Henry retreated a little further into the cave. Tucking himself into a ball, he closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep.

Hours later, a hideous noise tore through the air; an inhuman screech. Henry jolted awake, struggling to his feet and looking around wildly. _Maybe it was a dream_, he thought uncertainly. _Maybe I just dreamt it._ He turned to leave but then something huge and solid was slamming into his chest, breath hot at his throat. He landed heavily against the cave wall, rock scraping against his face and his hand taking most of his weight with an agonising crunch. He cried out in pain and a glowing red pair of eyes snapped up at him, animalistic and angry.

Henry dropped to the ground as the beast drew back to strike him again, and it smashed into the wall with an enraged howl. Henry scrabbled desperately towards the entrance to the cave, throwing himself towards the small gap and pulling himself through. He was conscious of hot, wet liquid running down the side of his face and a blinding pain in his left wrist when he tried to put pressure on it.

He was nearly out of the hole when suddenly he felt teeth cut into his ankle, sharp and piercing. He screamed as he felt his flesh tear, but kept moving and the teeth dragged agonisingly through the muscle but detached. He kept moving, half running and half crawling, hyperventilating and letting out involuntary whimpers between breaths and _oh god, the pain. _His wrist was definitely broken and he clutched it to his chest in a bizarrely protective way as he staggered blindly forwards, not knowing where he was going except for _away._

He had made it a good distance away when he stumbled and fell. He managed to twist so that he landed on his shoulder and not his wrist, but it still hurt. He froze in place, holding his breath, but nothing emerged from the cave. Henry moaned as pain suddenly pulsed through his wrist, tucking his knees up to his chest for comfort. He gingerly touched his good hand to his leg and felt bile rise in this throat. His skin was mangled, blood slick against his fingers and filling the air with a disgustingly metallic tang.

"John! John, over here!" somebody was calling. He could hear footsteps, people beginning to run. He tried to sit up, to escape, but hands cradled his head and lowered him back down again. He shouted in fear, and they dropped away.

"It's okay! We won't hurt you," a girl's voice said. "I promise that we won't."

Henry calmed down long enough to look at her properly. She was quite pretty and smiling reassuringly- sympathetically. She stroked at his hair gently and he wanted to tell her to get _off, _that he wasn't a child, but there was something in the touch that stopped him. The adrenaline slowly faded away. He, to his disgust, began to cry.

"Hi," a boy said, kneeling down beside the girl. "My name's John, and this is Sarah. We're going to get you fixed up, okay? Is the person that did this still around?"

"It- it w- was-wasn't-," Henry tried, but he couldn't get it out.

"Just tell us if it's safe to stay here," Sarah said gently.

"Y-yes," Henry managed.

"Good. We're going to wash some of the blood off of your face, okay? It might sting a little, but it's not going to hurt you. Can you turn your head to the left?" Henry obeyed, and cool water flowed over his cheek.

"I think they're mostly grazes," he heard the boy saying. "The one on the right side of his head might look bad, but it's still more of a scrape than an actual cut."

"Head wounds always bleed heavily. I'm more worried about his leg."

"I am here, you know!" Henry said with just an edge of hysteria. _Worried? How worried?_ He hadn't had a chance to actually see the injury yet. He tried sitting up to look, but John was there and pushing him firmly back down.

"You're in shock. It's best if you stay down. What's your name again, sorry?"

"Henry."

"Okay, Henry. I'm going to need to look at your leg. It might hurt a bit, but you can grip Sarah's hand. Try and be brave, okay?"

Sarah's hand enveloped his, warm and reassuring. John gently turned his leg this way and that, examining the wound.

"Is this a cut?" he asked.

"B-bite," Henry said.

"Okay, then I need to try and clean the wound. It'll just be with water," John said, holding up a flask so that he could see. "Again, it hurt, but it's important." Henry clenched Sarah's hand as the water poured over his distorted flesh.

"Okay, that's the last of the water," John said, and he set the flask down. "I think you were lucky, Henry. Whatever it was didn't get the chance to get a proper hold on you. It's left a nasty tear, but it could have been much worse."

Henry wondered if the creature- the hound- had been asleep when he entered. If it was usually faster, stronger, but that drowsiness had slowed its reactions. He imagined it lying just out of sight, waiting, as he slept, and found that he could not stop shaking.

"Definitely in shock," he heard John murmur to Sarah. "He's gone very pale."

"Can you blame him?" Sarah replied- and then, strangely enough, asked John "and how about you?"

"Me? I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It… it feels good to help. How about you?"

"Same." Turning back to Henry, Sarah looked apologetic. "I'd like to take a look at your wrist. Could you hold it out, please?"

"No," he said, shrinking away. "No, please don't touch it, no."

"I'm not going to touch it," she reassured him. "I promise." Slowly, he obliged. "Thank you. Can you clench your fist?" Henry found that, whilst it hurt, he could do so. "Okay, good. Can you turn your arm?"

He tried, and howled in pain. Sarah blanched. "Okay, bad idea, bad idea. I'm really sorry, Henry, but I don't think there's much we can do about your arm right now. It's going to be okay, but it's also probably going to hurt quite a bit. We'll just have to hope that a sponsor will send you some painkillers," she said, stroking the side of his face again. He didn't even want to _think _about what Lia would be muttering now about 'replacement maternal figures', and he didn't really care. Sarah could only be a year or two older than him, but he found that he wanted her protection anyway.

"We can't leave him," she said to John desperately.

"I know," he said uncertainly. "But we don't have much food as it is."

"I saw a rabbit an hour or so ago," Sarah said.

"We don't have any weapons."

"I don't want-" Henry tried, ignoring the hushing sounds that Sarah made. "I don't want to be a drain on you."

"You won't be!" Sarah said, seemingly amazed at the suggestion. "You won't be." She looked at John, who nodded.

"Stay with us. It'll be okay. I found fish in the river nearby a few days ago."

"Sponsors might send things," Sarah added.

"We'll make it work," John agreed. "We should start trying to gather food now, though."

"Can you sit up?" Sarah asked. "No, not that fast, slowly- there we go." Henry felt a little woozy, but it passed.

"Do you want me to carry you?" John asked.

"No," Henry insisted. He had to keep some pride, after all.

"Can you walk?"

With Sarah's aid, he got to his feet, and took a few shaky steps. "Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, good. Sarah, stay with him."

Sarah looped one of his arms around her shoulders. "Come on, you. Where do you want to go, John?"

"There's this place by the river. There are fish there." Sarah looked at him.

"You're not talking about-"

"Yeah, there," he cut her off. "But it'll be okay. Honestly." Sarah seemed unsure. She started scrubbing her fingers against her shirt, and Henry wondered if they were itching or something. They began to move forwards, Henry's leg and wrist still hurting. His mind hurt even more.

"You okay?" John called from in front, turning around to look at him. Henry nodded, trying to smile. He didn't want to tell this brave, older boy that all he could think about was the hound. The way it had snarled, the way its eyes had glowed as it lunged for his throat. The pictures wouldn't get out of his head.

"Why don't we play a game?" Sarah suggested. "What's your name?"

"I already-"

"Humour her," John said, shooting Sarah a half-amused, half-sad look.

"Henry."

"Henry…?"

"Knight."

"Middle names?"

They continued in this fashion for the next few hours, stopping occasionally to rest. It was for Henry's benefit, no matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise. It took much longer than it would have done without him, but neither seemed prepared to entertain the idea of leaving him.

The place John brought them to struck fear into Henry's heart. "Oh, John," he heard Sarah mutter sadly, but he didn't understand why. The grass was coated in blood, a discarded gun lying nearby.

"I thought somebody would have taken the gun," John tried to joke. Nobody laughed.

"Are you sure you're-"

"Yes, I'm fine, it's fine. Let's just get these fish and get out." Sarah nodded, and guided Henry forwards.

"Ignore it," she told him. "It's safe, I promise." They reached the riverside and Sarah refilled her bottle. Henry peered in the water, but he couldn't see any fish.

"I- they were right here," John said desperately.

"You were… you _were_ pretty out of it," Sarah said.

"No, that wasn't it. I ate them, Sarah. I physically cooked and ate two of them. They were really here, and now they… aren't."

"Somebody else must have eaten the rest, I guess," she suggested. "Or maybe they swum somewhere else. Let's just follow the river for a while."

"That seems like a plan," John said, still staring at the river like he expected fish to materialise from nowhere.

"You okay to go on, Henry?" Sarah asked.

"Of course," Henry said. He had recovered enough to feel utterly mortified. He really, really hoped that his father back home had missed the previous four or so hours of footage.

"Good boy. Let's get going. And, um," she looked uncomfortable. "John-"

"Way ahead of you," he said bluntly, crossing the bleeding grass to scoop up the gun.

"Are you-"

"Yes. Now let's go, before I'm not." They left, Henry now walking independently and feeling better for it. Sarah started to clean her hands on her shirt again, and John moved too quickly and a little unsteadily, but nobody said anything about anything.


	10. Chapter 10

It was the fourth day, and Sherlock hadn't wasted any time. He had set up camp by the river as soon as he reached it, used the rope to trap a rabbit, and had even been able to start a fire and cook it. He thought, with pleasure, that the survival pack was of significantly more use than the gun would have been.

There had been a cannon shot in the early hours of the day- that made nine dead, sixteen left. He hadn't really been paying much attention, but he couldn't ignore that the death count really was remarkably low. There had been more than one year where the Games had ended by now, and yet they weren't even halfway through.

Hunger bit at Sherlock's stomach, and he frowned in annoyance. Eating _again_? Bodily tasks like sleeping and consuming were so very time-consuming, but they were necessary- especially with this level of activity. He had reset the snare, but when he checked, it was empty. The river it was, then. Even if there were no fish, something would be growing or living nearby.

He returned from where he had set up the rope to find that the fire, which he had been so carefully tending to, had gone out. Irritated, he moved closer to investigate. Most people would have dismissed the tiny movement out of the corner of their eye- but he was Sherlock, so of course he didn't. He had chosen a small copse of trees as his temporary sanctuary, and if he looked carefully he could even see the shadow wavering behind one of the trunks.

"I suggest that you come out," he said. When nobody moved, he added, "go on. I don't have all day."

The tribute obliged.

Sherlock dodged the punch that the man threw and ducked under the pole that he aimed firmly between Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock sunk a solid punch into his attacker's stomach, and he went down with a groan. The man raised the spear to slash at Sherlock's ankles but Sherlock jumped, and the man's swipe missed. He lunged for Sherlock's legs and knocked him to the ground, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's shirt as he landed. He rolled them so that he was pinning Sherlock down, pushing his face into the dirt.

"Don't make another move if you value your life," the man said in a low, warning tone.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Fucking freak," the man spat.

"Now that's just unkind."

"Shut up!" the man shouted, a little desperately. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and smashed his head against the ground. Sherlock winced, but when the man let go he lunged and twisted to head-butt him hard in the chest. The man fell backwards and reached for his spear, but Sherlock was there first. His fingers were closing around it when he felt something slash at his leg, and he recoiled with the sudden pain. Then the man was slamming him over again, holding a dagger in one hand and pressing a knee against Sherlock's throat.

"That was a mistake," the man snarled. Sherlock could feel blood running from the cut blooming on his calf, and was very conscious of the blade in the man's hand. _District One_, he remembered he looked up at the tribute's face.

"If you move again, I will drag you over to the fire and push your face into the burning ashes, and I will hold it there. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock murmured. The tribute was much weaker than Sherlock had originally thought, with few muscles and a dangerous dependence on weapons he was not very good at using. If Sherlock could just get that knife away from him-

"You're going to die," the man said, seeming to take pleasure in the fact. "You're going to die like the boy from Four did, and like the pair from Three did, and like that bitch I came here with is going to."

"Did you bore them to death?" That earned Sherlock a hard slap to the face, but it felt worth it. _Yes, good. Angry is good. Angry makes people clumsy, and clumsy makes people drop weapons. _

"I think that I want something a little bit grander for you," the man said, tossing the knife aside. He picked up the spear instead, and made sure to hold it so that Sherlock could see the red stains coating the blade. He positioned it directly above Sherlock's heart, the metal point cold even through his clothes.

"You think you're so clever," the boy sneered. "You think you're so much better than everybody else. Well, you aren't, and I'll prove it."

"See, that's a bit of a mistake," Sherlock said calmly. The boy began to laugh. He pushed his outspread hand against Sherlock's throat and chin, clumsily keeping him down.

"What are you even talking about?"

"You asked earlier if I valued my life."

"And?" the man demanded.

"I don't. I do, however, value my intellect, and you just insulted it." He bit the man's finger, hard, and took advantage of his temporary surprise to lunge to the side, rolling awkwardly. Sherlock scrabbled to his feet and ran, fast and hard. The spear only just missed him, and Sherlock looked back in time to see the other man grab the knife and start to sprint.

Sherlock was fast, but the other tribute was faster. His attacker was almost upon him and so Sherlock did the only thing that he could think of. He dropped to the ground instantly and grunted as the man's foot collided with his ribs, hard. His pursuer tripped and hurtled over, slamming against the ground. At first, Sherlock didn't understand why he screamed so loudly or for so long. It was only when the tribute rolled over, shaking hands curled around the knife embedded firmly into his chest that understanding dawned.

"Oh," Sherlock said- and then again, "oh", because he really did not know what else to say. The man, in a clear fit of panic, pulled the dagger from his chest. It was a mistake he didn't live long to regret. Sherlock didn't know why he stayed there until the cannon sounded less than two minutes later, but he did. He had never seen so much blood before in his life, couldn't really get his head around just how much there was. It stayed behind his eyelids like the outline of an image stared at for too long, flashing up whenever he blinked.

Sherlock picked up the knife from the dead man's side, grimacing. Holding it by the tip of the handle, he left for the river. The blade dripped as he walked, the droplets splashing onto his feet and dyeing them with little splashes of crimson. Sherlock paid it little attention. All he really cared about as he scrubbed the dagger clean was that _his _blood was still inside of his body, churning around with a regular, reassuring thud.

* * *

><p>Greg had still eaten nothing since the few handfuls of berries since he had entered the arena, and even that felt like a long time ago. With the fourth day drawing to a close, he had to be careful standing up. He had gotten off the ground too quickly earlier, and found himself landing back on it with a thud only a few seconds later. It had been then that he'd snapped. Hungry, weak, tired and so very <em>angry<em>, he had found Sally.

"Have you-" she had begun.

"No, Sally, I haven't, because there isn't any food here. If there was, it's gone. We need to move. I'm going, and it's really up to you whether you follow or not."

She had looked at him, and he had thought she was about to argue. Instead she snapped "if you insist, you ass", and stormed off ahead of him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he had followed her. He didn't really care what happened as long as it got them moving.

And so they had been walking ever since, passing bushes and shrubs that were most definitely empty. Mostly they came across patches of rocks, jagged and blank and most definitely food free. It was late evening by the time they were forced to stop.

"This is stupid," Sally said, propping herself up on a rock. "We should be... better than this. I've seen people go much longer with no food. Much, much longer."

It took Greg far too long to organise his thoughts into coherent sentences. "Doesn't mean that it's a good idea, though."

"We'd be pretty useless if we got attacked," Sally said. Greg didn't want to consider just how right she was.

"We need to carry on," he said, but Sally shook her head.

"We should split up."

"Doesn't that kind of undo the point of allying?" he grunted, but she didn't laugh.

"I'm serious. We can have a signal or… something, and meet back here in an hour or so. We can cover twice the ground."

Greg hesitated. "I don't know-"

"Oh come on, you idiot. You can take care of yourself for sixty minutes."

"I wasn't worried about that," he said, annoyed.

"Then why are we still talking? Come on, let's just do it. The alternative's hardly been working."

"Fine," he found himself agreeing. "But how do we even measure an hour?"

"Just guess it," Sally shrugged. "You aren't that stupid."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "See you soon."

She nodded, and turned to her left. Grudgingly, he turned to the right and walked away from her. If he just walked in a straight line, it would be easy to find his way back. Left, right, left, right… rocks, empty bushes… left, right… bare trees… left, right, left, stop for a minute. Keep on going, left, right… nothing. There was nothing here. He couldn't see any pods of shelter or food stretching out ahead of him- only the river, carrying on and on until it was lost from sight. He had a feeling he was approaching the end of the arena.

Cursing, Greg turned around and headed back the way he had come. He was early, but there was no point in wasting energy chasing after nothing. He slumped down onto the rock, and rested his head in his hands.

"Greg!" Greg glanced up, wondering if he had imagined the faint cry of his name. But then it came again- "Greg, over here! I found something!" And then he saw her- Sally, in the distance, hurrying towards him and waving. He pushed himself up and half ran, half loped to meet her. They both knew the risks of making so much noise in such a dangerous place, but they were past caring. Sally had found food.

"What is it?" he called when he was close enough.

"Berries," she said excitedly. "Come on, hurry up!"

"Did you bring any back with you?" he asked, following her eagerly. She shook her head.

"The patch is only a few minutes away. I ate some, though. They're not bad- a bit bitter, but edible."

Greg didn't particularly care about taste at this point. "What do they look like?"

"I've never seen them before- I reckon they're a… a crossbreed, or something. They're kind of orangey-red, and quite big. They're kind of bitter, but okay."

"How many are there?"

"Loads- three huge bushes, completely covered in red or orange berries. They're bitter, but they're not that bad."

The creeping feeling that something was wrong finally managed to break through the haze of anticipation. "Sally?" Greg asked cautiously.

"What? Look, there they are!" She pointed at two large bushes, each covered in the clusters of fruit.

"You told me there were three," he said carefully.

"Well, excuse me. I must have counted wrong. What are you waiting for?" Sally began to walk towards the bushes, but Greg forced himself to remain still and watch his ally. He noticed for the first time that she was unsteady on her feet, leaning heavily on her left leg to walk. She was nearly at the plants when the leg suddenly gave way and she fell.

"Sally!" he shouted, running forwards. She was trembling from head to toe, like she was terrified of something he couldn't see. "Sally, are you okay?"

"I- I can't-" Sally stammered, but she didn't finish the sentence. Greg pushed her hair away from her face and nearly recoiled when she contorted to look at him. Her pupils were huge, twin holes carved out of her irises.

"Christ," he breathed, rocking backwards and running a hand through his hair. "Just- just try and stay calm, Sally, okay? It's gonna be okay."

If Sally heard him, she didn't respond. Her limbs were skewed at odd angles, held too stiffly and still shuddering. He watched uselessly, unable to understand what was happening or to stop it as Sally began to jerk violently, eyes rolling backwards. He clasped her hand in both of his and buried his face in it, desperately trying to hold onto her juddering fingers without really knowing why.

When she all too abruptly fell into motionlessness, his first thought was that he had somehow managed to make it all okay. His second thought was that the cannon shot seemed so much louder than ever before.

Greg retreated into the bushes to watch the hovercraft scoop up her immobile body and neatly carry it away. He leant heavily against the sturdier branches of the plant. He was numb. Numbed by the swiftness of it, absorbed by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and emptied out by the clawing hunger inside. He closed his unsure fingers around the berries beneath them without even realising what he was doing.

Could one or two really hurt? He hadn't known how many she had eaten. The image of her painful spasms didn't leave him, but neither did the image of himself gradually dying of starvation. He plucked a single fruit from the bush- and then two, and then three. He held the trio of berries in his cupped hands.

Greg slowly, so very slowly, pooled them into one palm and delicately selected middle berry. He brought it to his mouth and pressed it against his closed lips. He closed his eyes. _Bitter, but not too much. _One or two wouldn't hurt.

He snapped his eyes open. Before he could talk himself out of it, he threw the berries to the ground and stamped on them. The insides oozed a dusky red and he carried on crushing them until he was sure he wasn't going to peel them off the ground. Even as he stared at the dirtied mess on the floor, he found his vision being pulled back to the bush._ Just the one can't hurt…_

Greg turned and walked away as fast as his trembling legs would let him.

* * *

><p>They hadn't meant to try and intervene. They really hadn't. They had been trying to help people, that was true, but actually breaking up a fight was something none of them were interested in.<p>

The three of them had already had a good morning- Sarah's district had sent them three bread rolls, flecked with dark green seaweed and salt, and John had been so stunned that he nearly forgot to say 'thank you'. Sponsorship was not something he had expected. They had eaten them and started the day with a new sense of hope. It was only a few hours later that they entered a pod of trees, turned right, and found themselves face-to-face with a pair locked in combat.

Well, combat was a rather ambitious way of phrasing it. A girl John didn't recognise lay on the ground, barely moving. An impossibly tall tribute loomed over her, his hands clamped around her throat.

"Hey!" Sarah shouted, unable to ignore them, and the man looked up. Seeing the gun in John's hand, he turned and sprinted.

"Lorena?" Henry gasped, and John's stomach sank. The girl was from District Ten. Henry knew her. That was going to make things much harder.

"Is she going to be okay?" Henry asked fearfully as John and Sarah dropped to her side.

"Yeah, sure," John said, keeping his eyes fixed on the body and checking her over for other injuries. Her breath rattled at the back of her throat, slow and infrequent. "Who was that, Sarah?"

"The man from Two. He calls himself the Golem. I can't remember his real name."

"I can't see any other injuries," John said, "but I don't know how long she was without oxygen for." He heard Henry starting to hyperventilate, and looked up at Sarah.

"Get him out of here," he told her, and she nodded.

"Come on, Henry. We're going to keep looking for food."

"But-"

"John will look after her, okay?" Sarah led Henry away, grabbing his arm firmly, and John pressed his fingers to Lorena's wrist. The pulse was faint and wavering.

"Come on," he muttered. "Please." There was little he could do but wait. He sat by her side, watching her closely. Less than a minute later, the cannon shot fired. John sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. He was still holding onto the girl's frail arm, unwilling to let go. It took him a few seconds to register that he could still feel the faint beat beneath his fingertips. His eyes widened as a sickening realisation dawned.

"John!" a voice screamed, and he was up and running.

"Henry?" he shouted back, and when there was no reply he just ran faster. He crashed through the canopy of trees frantically, but he was too late. Sarah lay on the ground, unmoving. He could see the heavy red marks on her neck, ugly grooves made by fingers. Her eyes were still open, staring blindly through John without seeing him. The Golem had Henry pinned down, hands squeezing around his neck. John aimed the gun at him and went to fire, but found that he couldn't.

"Get off him!" he shouted desperately, finger still trembling uselessly on the trigger. The Golem obliged, stepping away from the body as the cannon shot sounded. It was followed only seconds later by another, rocketing through the arena. John tightened his finger on the trigger again but his aim was unsteady, and the man could run as fast as he could kill. Then he was gone and John was alone yet again, with death all around him and the heavy weight of a gun in his hand- heavier, somehow, for the bullets he had not fired.

He didn't cry. He didn't break down, though he felt near to it. He took the water bottle from Sarah's side, numb. He closed her eyes with gentle but detached movements. John took the berries from Henry that they had collected the night before, and moved on without looking back. The hovercraft had already taken Lorena by the time he reached where her body had been. He ate the fruit as he walked, and after a few minutes a rabbit ran across his path. He had no qualms about shooting this time around.

The river ran directly next to the pod, so he picked a tree to climb. He still hated being in the forest, and it felt easier to manage from up high. He hid the rabbit in a nearby shrub for later, along with the half-full flask. He kept the gun.

It was still daylight, but he didn't really want to go anywhere. John instead lay back on a branch and closed his eyes. Sleep came much more easily than he'd anticipated. He didn't dream.

He was woken up several hours later by a rustling from below. It was dark, but he could just about make out the form below. He leant out of the tree and pointed his gun at the tribute without bothering to weigh up his options. Maybe he'd shoot if he had to. Maybe he wouldn't. His guess was as good as anybody else's at this stage.

"That would be very optimistic of you," a smooth voice said, and John nearly dropped the gun. "An eight is a good score, perhaps, but I think you'll find mine was somewhat higher."

"Sherlock?" he asked, not quite believing it.

"John," the familiar reply came. And then- "You can stop aiming that at me any time you want, you know."

"Shit, of course. Sorry." He set the weapon down on the branch. "I… how've you been?" he asked, scooting to the edge of the branch. The words sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth. _Is there a social protocol for this kind of thing?_

"Nearly died a few times. Killed a man. Nothing of particular interest. Yourself?"

"Similar. Um, sorry- should I come down?"

"That seems logical," Sherlock agreed. John grabbed the gun and clambered down the branches. Sherlock looked much the same as ever. A cut ran down the side of his face and his usual long coat had been traded for the standard arena uniform, but he seemed just as imposing as usual. But then he smiled warmly, and a considerable part of John melted. _Ah. I'd forgotten he did that._

"Hi," John said.

"I knew her, didn't I?" Sherlock asked out of nowhere.

"Knew who?"

"The girl you killed."

"How did-" Sherlock just looked at him. John exhaled. "Serra. I'm… sorry."

"Don't be. You did what you had to," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Thanks, I guess," John said, guilt bubbling deep in his stomach all the same. "Who did you… you know?"

"Me? Oh, the boy from One. Something Anderson. He thought he'd attack me with a spear. I disagreed." In spite of himself, John smiled. "I spent the rest of my time trying not to die of thirst. Don't worry, I succeeded."

"Water's easy- it's food that's difficult. I shot a rabbit earlier- if you want some, I mean," he offered, suddenly feeling awkward. Irrelevant as it was, he still hadn't shaken the memory of Sherlock's interview. _He doesn't want you around. Get over yourself._

"Ah, yes, you got the gun," he commented, nodding at the weapon in John's hand. "Well done- meat is valuable. I have some fruit that I could trade for it, though."

"Fruit?"

"Well, berries, but that sounds like a bad trade for rabbit. Fruit at least gives the illusion of indulgence."

"You are so strange," John laughed.

"So I've been told. I don't know why you put up with me," Sherlock said. He quirked the side of his mouth upwards in a smile, and John felt his heart skip a beat again. _Stop being ridiculous. _

_People died because of you,_ his mind hissed at him. _I__nnocent people. Are you really prepared to let that happen to somebody else? To him?_

"You don't have to- well, you don't have to stay, I mean- if you don't want to," John said, ignoring his heart's loud objections.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… well, your interview."

"That thing?" Sherlock looked annoyed by the memory.

"Yeah, well, I just got the impression that- well, that you preferred to be alone. You said that there weren't any people you… well, you know," John finished awkwardly.

"Oh, John, you do have such a fickle memory."

"What?"

"I've told you before- you aren't 'people'."

"You know, that's probably not as much of a compliment as you think it is."

"Why not? _People _are loathsome."

"You think?"

"Mmm. I prefer to spend time with you."

"I- what do you- that's-"

"You're babbling."

"Sorry," John said. "I'll shut up."

"That's the most intelligent thing you've said so far. Come on, we're going to light a fire and see if anybody wants to fight us about it." John laughed again, and helped Sherlock to gather wood ("no, not that wood, t_hat _wood. It's completely different. What do you mean, you can't tell?") and to cook the rabbit over the flames ("Sherlock, stop it. I don't care if I'm doing it wrong. Go stand over there and stop looking so pained.")

Sarah and Henry and Lorena and Serra never left the forefront of John's mind- it didn't feel like they ever would- but the awful frozen feeling was fading, thawing in the fire's heat. He felt more human. More in touch with reality. More in control.

He kept the gun lodged firmly in his hand all the same, on constant lookout for any attackers. _Nobody else is going to die because of me. _But that was an impossible promise, wasn't it? If he refused to shoot, Sherlock could be killed. If he shot, somebody else would die. _But n__ot him. _There were too many factors to consider and it wasn't something he felt able to think through.

He knew that he would grieve later, but when he fell asleep later that evening ("I'll take the first watch. Sleep is unnecessary for my functioning"), he found himself feeling almost alright for the first time since this whole hideous thing had started. It was a little insane that a presence as chaotic as Sherlock's could be calming, but somehow it was.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N- *is desperately trying not to apologise for how hideously long this is***

* * *

><p>The cannon shot wasn't really necessary; the girl was most definitely dead. Shelley, the female tribute from District 2, had too many knives in too many places for anybody to think otherwise.<p>

At least Irene had made it quick for her.

"So you don't react like people sneaking up on you, I guess," a girl laughed behind her. Irene paused, but then continued pulling knives out of the body (she was not about to lose valuable resources to that damned hovercraft).

"There's a difference between sneaking and attacking," she stated. "Would you like to tell me which one you're doing?"

"Neither," the amused reply came. "I'm observing."

"How boring."

"Not one for observer sports?"

"No. I always preferred to take a direct involvement in things."

"You're missing out. If you don't take time to just sit back and _watch_, you never really get to know how the other team are playing."

"Was that a euphemism?"

"Most things are, if you want them to be. I'm Kate."

"Irene." Irene's lips twitched up into a smile. She pulled out the final knife with an audibly slick noise, and set it neatly at her side with the others.

"You've done impressively to make it to day five, Kate."

"Same goes for you. Now, are you going to hurt me, or should I stick around?"

"I don't see why the answer can't be both."

"Oh, then I'm definitely sticking around." A hand touched Irene's shoulder, and she prided herself on not jolting. She instead casually lolled her head to look at the hand. Female, slim, pale. That didn't exactly narrow it down.

"Should I turn and look, or would that be dull?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Life _is _too short for dull," Irene agreed. "In the poorer half?" she asked, taking in the calluses on the girl's fingertips.

"But only just," Kate replied.

"Seven?"

"Correct. But you're a rich girl if I've ever seen one."

Irene snorted. "Yes, well wealth is relative in Panem."

"Two?"

"The girl from Two was just carried out by a hovercraft."

"One, then. Oh, I remember now! Irene Adler, the woman in… nothing."

"I had hoped that would make me somewhat harder to forget."

"To be honest, I wasn't paying much attention to your name." Irene had to turn around to look after that.

She vaguely remembered the girl from training, but with twenty-three tributes drifting around there hadn't been time to really take everybody in. Kate had hair that was some strange shade between blonde and auburn ( perhaps bleached lighter by time spent in the sun; Seven dealt with lumber, after all). She was pretty despite the cuts and bruises on her face, and her eyes seemed to dance with a light that was all too familiar.

"Somebody's gorgeous," Kate grinned brazenly.

"I have got to stop picking up girls at fight scenes," Irene muttered to herself. Kate raised an eyebrow.

"You do this often?"

"To be fair, I suppose that the last one wasn't really a fight scene. I turned up, she ran."

"Skittish?"

"Like a baby deer. Tell me, Kate- do you have a partner right now?"

"In what sense?"

"Every. Especially the fun ones."

"No, not in any. Especially _not _the fun ones."

"Allies, then? For a while, at least?"

"I don't see a reason why not," Kate said, and the subtext heavy tone broke as she smiled. It seemed to de-age her by several years. "What was wrong with the last one?"

"Nothing much. It doesn't suit to stay with one person for too long in a situation like this, so I'm ally-hopping. Though admittedly, Molly and I were somewhat incompatible in our game-plans."

"Ahh. I hope we don't have the same problem."

"What are your feelings on taking things from innocent people while they're sleeping?" Irene asked.

"It's much easier than when they're awake."

"We're going to get along just fine."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was packing up his things when the parachute came. John had been asleep for around an hour, and Sherlock was trying not to wake him up without really knowing why; there was nothing wrong with what he was planning to do. They had eaten all the meat so there was little to be gained from staying allied. He had debated taking John's gun, but he had been doing reasonably without one so far, so had decided there was no point in burdening himself with something else to carry.<p>

Sherlock was just tying the bag closed when the parachute drifted down. He pounced on it immediately. If it was intended for him, he wanted to ensure it wasn't lost. If it was intended for John- well, John would never have to know. He opened the silver silk in one fluid motion to find a fresh box of bullets- bullets that would fit the gun he had decided not to take.

Sherlock scowled, perplexed. Was it a message to take the gun after all? Or was the ammunition intended for John? There was no clear indication which district had sent it, after all.

It was only when he looked from the box to the peacefully sleeping boy that long overdue realisation hit him. _Oh. _He thought back to the training, to things John had said that Sherlock had disregarded as irrelevant. _Stupid! _The one thing that was making this year's tributes stand out wasn't intelligence- it was kindness.

From day one, the participants had spent their time together- talking, bonding, making friends. Even Sherlock himself had somehow managed to find companionship in John and Molly. John had mentioned off-handedly earlier that he had allied with the girl named Sarah, and that they had gone on to help the boy from Four. From the closeness in training to the allying to the low death count so far, the one continuous trend of this year's games had been friendship.

How the Capitol audience must be loving the heightened drama that brought.

Sherlock had steadfastly ignored his mentor's advice as nothing more than meaningless social protocol. Cordiality had seemed nothing but a waste of time. But the bullets were a test. A message. He could either do as he had always done- go his own way- or play the game. If he allied with John, he would be marketing himself as sociable. Likeable. Somebody worth sponsoring.

There was something sad and quiet in John's eyes. It usually disappeared when Sherlock spoke or something else distracted him, but it returned whenever he had time to himself to think. Was that what allying did, then? What would happen when- if- John died? If Sherlock himself had to kill him?

_Deal with that when the time comes_, he thought to himself. _There's no point in wasting time wondering. _Sherlock remembered the bread John had told him about. District Four. They had no reason to help boys from Ten and Twelve, other than that they had shown their tribute kindness. He took one last look at the sleeping boy in the tree, and began to unpack the bag.

The parachute arrived only seconds later, carrying two bread rolls- one from Eight, one from Twelve. Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a half-smile. _Rook, I feel like we're finally speaking the same language._

* * *

><p>Greg was ashamed to admit his first reaction to the hollowed-out bush had simply been 'that's weird'. It had taken him far too long to realise that it was not that way naturally. He blamed it on the fact that he had not slept in over twenty-four hours; he hadn't slept at all since Sally died.<p>

Food was no longer of prime importance- earlier in the day, he had found a rabbit drinking from the river. He had ended up drowning it for lack of any other weapons, forcing himself to ignore urges to vomit as he held its thrashing body under the water. He was sure that it had been a bad idea to eat it raw, but he hardly had many other options.

It had brought mixed feelings. Of course he had been relieved, but he couldn't help but wonder why he had found food _then _and not twenty-four hours beforehand. Maybe if he had just worked more, just looked harder, Sally would still be alive. He didn't feel like he deserved the meat festering in his stomach, but guilt was a luxury he couldn't give in to.

It had been strange to be alone. Even when Sally was in a bad mood- which had been often- she had been company. Standing over the hollow bush and looking down at it, he felt a bizarre urge to just… stay. To see who arrived, and whether they'd be willing to ally with him. _Yeah, and then you can get yourself killed. Just this once, don't be an idiot._

But he had hesitated for a few moments too long, and when he turned to leave somebody was already there.

"What are you doing?" the figure asked. She sounded angry, but her voice was too light and sweet to be truly intimidating. The arrow aimed at him, however, had Greg backing away with his hands held up.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing, honestly. I was just… walking. I'm going now."

"Did you take anything?" she demanded.

"I didn't know you had anything to take. Not that I would have anyway," he added hastily. "Honestly, please believe me."

"Calm down," she said, lowering the bow. "I believe you."

"Thank you," he said gratefully. She shrugged.

"I don't have much worth taking," she said. There was pain in her voice, and it made a strange pang of sadness shoot through Greg's core.

"There are rabbits pretty nearby," he told her, though he wasn't sure why. She slid the arrow back in the pouch on her back and moved close enough so that he could see her properly. Even without her pretty black and silver dress with the matching earrings, he recognised the girl from District Twelve. Greg was suddenly very conscious that he had not bathed in five days.

"Really?" she asked. "That's great, thank you."

"No problem."

"There are some berry bushes around, just to let you know- but they're running low. And some have turned weird."

Something uncomfortable stirred deep in Greg's gut. "Weird?"

"Yeah."

"What do you mean?"

"I can show you, if you want," she offered.

"Okay," he agreed.

"Hold on one second," she said, and he watched her dark shape reach into a nearby bush and root around in it. "You can't really see in the dark, I know, but you can tell by touch. Sort of. Okay, so this is one of the berries I've been eating," she said, dropping a small, round fruit into his palm. He rolled it between his fingers. It was just like the ones he and Sally had eaten on the first day.

"I've had these, yeah," he told her. "What are the other ones like?"

"Here," she said, and dropped a different berry into his hand. It was heavier, larger in his hand. The skin felt tougher, the whole thing less delicate. It was paler, and though he couldn't make out the colour, the monochrome version was all the confirmation he needed.

"Have you eaten any of these?" he asked, heart pounding in his throat.

"No," she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "They looked kind of scary. I didn't want to eat them before I had to. Why? Are they bad?"

"Very bad," he said. "Very very bad. Just don't, okay?" He dropped the offending thing onto the floor and stamped it into the dirt. She didn't stop him.

"I'll get rid of them all," she said worriedly. "That's a frightening. Terrifying, actually... wow. Oh, sorry!" she exclaimed. "Thank you. I nearly forgot- thank you so much."

"It's okay."

"You seem to know a lot about all of this," she commented.

"What?" he said, confused. "Seriously?"

"Honestly. You got a six, right? That's good."

"I got a five."

"Oh. That's still good, though! And you know about the berries and rabbits and… things," she ended feebly.

"Thanks," he said, unsure of how to respond. "It's pretty dark… I should probably-"

"Do you want to maybe stay for a while?" she blurted out. "I mean, um, we could be allies. I know that's sudden, sorry, but I could do with somebody who actually knows what they're doing. I'm a bit rubbish."

"So is it just you?"

"It is now, yes. I was with this girl, but, um, not anymore. So if you wanted, you could have me. No, wait-"

"S'okay," he said, amused. "Yeah, I think that'd be cool. You're Twelve, right?"

"No, I'm sixteen," she said. "Oh, God- you meant District number, didn't you?"

"Um- yeah," he said ruefully. "But good to know. I'm seventeen, and from Six."

"I'm sixteen- and yes, Twelve," she said. "My name's Molly."

"I'm Greg," he told her. "So you actually _hollowed out_ a bush? That's pretty impressive."

"Oh, not really. I just moved some branches and things. Where have you been staying?"

"Places," he said vaguely. "Trees, bushes. I was with a girl but she- I- she's gone now."

"I'm sorry," Molly said, and she genuinely sounded it.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm sorry about- you know, your friend."

"Oh, Irene? No, she's not dead. She just gets distracted easily, I think," Molly said. There wasn't much that Greg could say to that.

"So should I take the first guard shift?" Molly asked. "Or you could, if you wanted. Do you think that we need to? I guess we could just sleep together- okay, no, that came out really_ really_ wrong-"

Greg wondered if she was permanently flustered. He didn't mind; for some reason, it made him smile. _It's cute._

"Don't worry," he laughed.

"So should I go first?" she asked. "Or do you want to?" A big part of him wanted to just leave the decision up to her- he'd no doubt screw it up- but he found himself overwhelmed by desires to appear more in control; to impress her somehow. He stood a little straighter.

"Can I have the bow?" he asked.

"Um, no. Sorry."

"That's fair. You can take the first shift, then, if you want. Wake me up in a few hours?"

"Of course," she said. "You're really nice, Greg. I wish I'd we'd seen each other in training."

"Same here," he said, though he had first noticed her a long time ago.

* * *

><p>"<em>John? John, are you alright?" somebody was asking. John looked up to where Sarah stood.<em>

_He was standing in a pit of fallen leaves, brown and crushed and oozing with decay. She stood nearby, trembling slightly and eyes full of familiar concern. _

"_Are you alright?" she asked again._

_He reached out to touch her, to reassure her, but the moment he touched her she began to cough, gasping desperately at the air. He withdrew immediately but Sarah kept scrabbling at her throat. She began to scream, animalistic and piercing. Rivulets of blood poured down her chest wherever her fingertips touched her skin, an ever-growing wound blossoming across her neck. _

"_Stop it," he pleaded, trying to pull her hands away, but whenever he touched her skin new wounds formed, cutting deeper each time. "Please, please, stop it." But she kept screaming, louder and louder until it was bursting his ear drums, blood seeping into every corner of his vision until all he could see was red. He tried to run but Sarah reached out and grabbed his legs, and he stumbled and fell into the pit of leaves. _

_Still she screamed and screamed and so he clapped his hands over her mouth to try and keep her quiet, to try and stop the noise. Then her eyes were widening and the air was being sucked out of her lungs and she convulsed, dying under his hands. He jerked backwards, horrified, but she didn't move. The leaves bubbled up to drag him down, down, rustling and hissing and then and hands- no, jaws, the metal jaws of the hovercraft- were descending on him again and when he looked at his arm, the cloth Harry had given him was dripping with blood, Sarah's blood, Henry's blood, Serra's blood, and then something was grabbing him and_

"John? John, are you alright?" somebody was asking. John's eyes snapped open and it took a moment for the scarlet haze to leave his vision. "Are you alright?" the voice repeated, and John found Sherlock peering intently into his face.

"Fine," he gulped, trying to calm down. _It was just a dream. Get over it. _But it had felt so _real_. He had heard somewhere that you dreamt in black and white, but there was no way that was true. Not with that much red. He glanced at the makeshift hairband he kept hugged around his wrist. It was, of course, the same as ever. No blood, no death, just a dirtied strip of rag.

"You were screaming," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Oh, God. Sorry," John said. The light hurting his eyes was that of early morning- maybe five or six A.M. "You didn't wake me for my guard shift."

"What? Oh, no. I didn't feel like sleeping. Besides, look what I found."

Sherlock held his palm out, uncurling his fingers, and John looked. It was a small glass canister, unremarkable except for the two pills inside of it.

"Weird," John commented, taking the bottle and holding it up to the light. The pills were a faint speckled pink. "Do you know what they are?"

"No."

"Could you work it out?"

"If there was a way to, then I would have done so by now," Sherlock said impatiently, snatching the bottle back.

"Alright, alright, calm down."

"I did think about opening the bottle and checking, but I decided that would be a stupid thing to do."

"A very stupid thing," John agreed. "You don't know what they do, Sherlock. For all we know, they give off toxic fumes or corrode skin or something."

"And for all we know, they're medicine," Sherlock challenged.

"Are you ill?"

"… no."

"Exactly. Do _not _open that bottle."

"I told you, I wasn't going to," Sherlock said, but he dropped the bottle grumpily. John winced, but merely bounced and rolled on the soft ground. Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed. "Oh, and I almost forgot. We have bread."

"Bread?" John blinked.

"Sent last night, via parachute." Sherlock said, pointing to a silk-wrapped package. "One from Twelve, one from Eight. You can open it, if you want."

"Thanks," John said, crossing over to where the parachute lay. "Why do people keep sending me bread?" he questioned. He was talking to himself, but Sherlock answered anyway.

"Presumably they want to sponsor you."

"But why now?"

"However would I know?" Sherlock said, but there was something in his manner that made John cynical. Pushing suspicion aside, he carefully opened the bundle. Two rolls sat neatly next to each other, the delicious smell wafting out.

"You didn't eat any?"

"Wasn't hungry," Sherlock replied. John looked at him in disbelief. Only Sherlock could grow up in a famine-stricken area, survive off of berries and whatever he could catch for five days, and still treat food with that level of indifference. It was bizarre, but John was starting to get used to that.

"Here," John said, holding out the bread from Eight. "You need to keep your strength up."

"I'd forgotten I had a healer on my hands," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He took the bread all the same, but tore it in half. He handed the larger half to John. "Try it. Eight's bread is good."

"I wish I could say the same about Twelve's," John said, doing the same with his roll and giving Sherlock half. It was an unusual thing to do, but it felt right. Not to mention that Sherlock had that look on his face again- a look that said that he was doing something very clever and was to be trusted implicitly. John waited, but Sherlock made no move to explain.

"You okay?" he asked cautiously.

"Me? Fine, yes," Sherlock said, biting into the bread like he had forgotten it was there. Maybe he had. "Have you seen the numbers around the arena?"

"Numbers?" John asked. He was growing aware that all he did was parrot what Sherlock said back at him. He didn't like what that said about his use.

"Yes, numbers. It took me far longer than is acceptable to work out, but I _was _in a near-death state. Capitol numerals."

"'V's and 'I's and things?" John asked. John had no idea where the Capitol had gotten their numbering system- they tended to claim they had invented it, but the older people in Twelve said they had remembered a different story. The system was only really used in the Capitol itself; it was a sign of grandeur more than anything else.

"Yes. 'I' is one, 'V' is five, 'X' is ten, 'L' is fifty and 'C' is one hundred. They're relatively straightforward once you learn them," Sherlock lectured. "What I don't yet understand is their purpose."

"Wait- I have seen them," John said, the memory breaking through the crusted layer of repression. "Yeah! I didn't realise they were numbers- I didn't know what they were. They were by the river with the fish."

"And what did they say?" Sherlock asked eagerly, leaning forwards.

"Um… God, um. I know there was a double X… and maybe an L?" he hazarded a guess. Sherlock slumped back, clearly disappointed.

"It's always the same with you people," he muttered. "You see, but you don't observe."

"What?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. What matters is what they _mean_. I've seen numbers in the hundreds in places, so it's obviously not District number."

"Maybe they divide the arena up," John suggested. "Maybe they're always there, but they don't show them on the broadcast."

But Sherlock was shaking his head. "No, I would have noticed them. They're new. They mean something. I just don't know _what_," he said forcefully, drumming his hands against his leg. John stared at him.

"This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course," he said testily. "How could it not be?"

"Try because you're the cleverest person in these Games? And perhaps the whole of Panem?" John said incredulously. "Maybe because you got an _eleven _in training?"

"I fail to see what any of that has to do with anything."

"Most people probably haven't even noticed the numbers, Sherlock. Just because you haven't worked it out yet doesn't mean you're any less intelligent."

"Of course it doesn't. That would be a ridiculous claim. This is just incredibly frustrating." Sherlock paused. "Thank you for the consideration, though," he said slowly, like a child prompted to say thank you for a birthday present.

"That's okay," John said, deciding not to question it. "Did you see the death count last night?" he asked instead. "I think I slept through it."

"Yes. Four more, so there's nine left now."

"Nine?" John asked, jaw dropping open. "Seriously?"

"Yes. Fifteen dead, nine left."

"Shit," John breathed. "Sorry, that's just… I didn't realise. Who's left, then?"

"Obviously there's us. The woman from One, the man from Two-"

"Molly," John added. "Um, I think the girl from Six?"

"No, she's gone. The boy's still there, though."

"Oh, okay. I don't remember the huge guy from Five going."

"Nor me, so he's still alive. The pair from Seven too."

"Really? Both?"

"Yes. It's interesting; Seven rarely make it this far."

"Yeah, well neither do Twelve. So that's the woman from One, the man from Two, the guy from Five, the boy from Six, both from Seven, you, me and Molly?" John said, counting them out on his hands.

Sherlock nodded. "Christ," John muttered. "Fifteen people dead in five days."

"If it concerns you so much, why pay attention to it?" Sherlock asked.

"I want to know what happens to the people I- to people I know. Like Molly." _Like you._

"Why?"

"Seriously? I grew up with her, Sherlock. She's like family to me."

"So why do you want to know if she dies? Or should I say, _when _she dies?"

"No, you shouldn't!"

"Why not? Why lie? Either she'll die and you'll find out, or you'll die and that won't matter. All things considered, it's much more likely-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said, voice low. "I am not having this conversation."

"Why not?"

"Have some respect- I mean, you knew some of these people. You met them, spent time with them, and now they're gone," John said heatedly. "Don't you feel anything over that? Don't you care at all?"

"Would caring about them save their lives?"

"No, of course not."

"Then I'll continue not to waste my time doing so."

John wanted to answer- he really did- but nothing presented itself as a good enough option. He was finding himself somehow questioning the very basic things that made him human, and that scared him more than almost anything else.

John had only known Sherlock for a week, but sometimes he felt that Sherlock only observed the human race; existed purely to point out their peculiarities and illogicalities without sharing a single one of them. It seemed easy for him to divide what made sense from what was deep inside a person; he could cut the join between head and heart. John could not do the same.

Second after second passed, but he still couldn't think of a single damned reply. Instead he took a deep breath, and then another, and then he changed the topic.

"So those pills- where did you even find them?" he asked. Sherlock looked at him long and hard, but then he seemed to consent.

"Under that bush," he said, pointing nearby. "I've checked some already, but there are many more. You take left side, I'll take right. I doubt we'll find anything, but we've hardly got much else to spend our time on." Sherlock grinned at him, but John wouldn't meet his eyes. Sherlock's face fell back into stoniness.

"I've disappointed you," he stated flatly.

"Good. That's… good deduction, yeah," John said bitterly.

"Death happens, John," he said bluntly.

"I know," he said through gritted teeth._ I've caused enough. _"You're right, after all. Why should a killer have the right to grieve?" He regretted the words almost as soon as they left his mouth. _Stop being such a child about this._

Understanding flooded Sherlock's eyes, quickly followed by annoyance. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't need to."

"I don't play games, John," Sherlock snapped. "I don't hide what I think. If I thought you were a 'killer', I'd simply tell you. I don't think you're a bad person for grieving- though I still fail to see the purpose- much as I don't think you're a bad person for doing what you had to do to survive." Sherlock paused, but John didn't say anything. "Like I said- death happens. Get over it."

Sherlock didn't speak again, but kept his gaze on John. Eventually, the other boy raised his head to look Sherlock in the eyes.

"So bushes, right? You're going to need to tell me what I'm looking for, though, because I really have no idea." And this time, when Sherlock smiled, John smiled tentatively back.


	12. Chapter 12

Kate didn't have time to move; the man's strong hands were pinning her to the ground and closing around her throat before she could even try to call out. The Golem's face leered down at her and he tightened his grip. It was her own fault really, she supposed, for wandering off on her own. _That's not exactly the point of allying, Kate._

His fingers were locked in a vice around her neck and she hadn't known a person could be that strong. Kate tried to kick him away, but black patches were descending on her vision, and she started to feel that the best solution was to give in and go to sleep.

All of a sudden, the fingers lurched away and something revoltingly warm sprayed her face. Kate gulped down air, eyes snapping open again. In front of her, the Golem was trying to use his huge hands to stem torrents of blood, rushing from a gaping scowl across his neck. It wasn't working.

At first, Kate thought she was hallucinating the pair of shapely female legs wrapped around the Golem's middle. Then she made out Irene's arm slung around his shoulders, knife clutched in her hand, and everything clicked into place.

Kate scampered away to try and shield herself from the worst of the blood, wiping a disgusted hand across her face. Irene dismounted as the Golem crashed to his knees. She landed lightly on the ground by Kate, composed as ever.

"We really cannot leave you alone, can we?" Irene said, looking down to where Kate lay on the grass.

"How did you even… jump that high?" she wheezed out between breaths. Irene chuckled and wiped the scarlet-stained blade on the grass. The cannon shot sounded, and she glanced back at the body as though she had forgotten it was there. She turned back to Kate. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yeah," she rasped out. "Give me… a minute." Irene obliged.

"I think there's a storm coming," she mused, looking up to the darkening sky.

"We should… find shelter."

"You're so dull when you're sensible."

"One of us… has to be."

"Is that a complaint?"

"More of an… observation."

"Get up, then. Let's go find somewhere to hide before you melt."

* * *

><p>Sherlock thought that he had probably spent more time in the company of people in the last twelve days than ever before in his life. After all, he lived alone and the closest thing he had to a friend- or even an acquaintance, really- was Mycroft. Mycroft also happened to be the closest thing he had to an enemy, so they weren't exactly close.<p>

Sherlock was nearing the end of his time at school, so nobody bothered to check where he was when he didn't show up- which was often. As for work, it was far too noisy in the factory for conversation. Sherlock didn't much mind.

So, all things considered, the fact that he was now on his twelfth day straight surrounded by people, morning and night, was remarkable. Admittedly he had spent the first few days in the arena alone, but he still felt the achievement was worth noting. And now that he knew what the Capitol were looking for, he could make good use of those around him. In particular, John.

After the argument and back on friendly terms, they had received a small pot of stew. Sherlock had tried to give John most of it, but the other boy had point blank refused. He ate exactly half and sat there, watching Sherlock sternly, until he did the same. It was frustrating. _What's the point in making an effort to be selfless if the recipient is too stubborn to let you? _

Sherlock was steadily realising that he could win this and that he was, in fact, actively trying to do so. It wasn't out of any grand desire to return home- the idea of returning to District Eight, even as a victor, wasn't an appealing one. Sherlock was a genius who spent his life boxed in a factory, watching machines sew fabric. It was boring. Life was boring.

He had always had to find things to keep him entertained- investigations, experiments, games- and wasn't this the greatest game of them all? It was more than The Hunger Games: it was a game with the Capitol, the audience, even with the president. Rather than them deciding his fate, he was twisting around to do the opposite. _Can I work out what you want? What you're looking for? If I know which strings to pull, can I make you all dance?_

The notion that he could outwit the Capitol itself was one far too compelling to ignore. So he continued trying to work out the numbers, and he didn't isolate himself, and he spent a lot of time looking at John when John wasn't looking.

At times it was hard. He could be sociable when he had to, but it was a constant effort to remain _kind _and _sympathetic _and _pleasant_.Sherlock snorted at the thought. '_Pleasant' is a word that you use to describe the weather. _It certainly didn't fit when applied to himself.

"What's so funny?" John called from a few bushes away. They had been searching for several hours, talking to each other as they did so. Sherlock usually hated anybody talking while he worked, but John helped somehow.

(There seemed to be a lot of 'somehow' and 'strangely' and 'for no clear reason' when it came to John. Sherlock really did find that so very _annoying.)_

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "Found anything yet?"

"Not yet," John replied. "You?"

Sherlock snapped the magnifying glass shut and stood up. "Nothing of interest, no." It was just another bare bush. The majority of them were.

"Never mind," John said. "There's a whole arena out there."

"Mmm."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not. I don't see how a bottle of pills could magically appear under a bush, with no sign of how they got there, and nothing similar has happened anywhere else. It doesn't make any sense."

"You'll work it out eventually," John reassured him. "Though I don't think that we'll be able to look for much longer."

"What? Why not?"

"Look up, Sherlock." Sherlock did so. The sky was jet black, brimming with the promise of storm. Sherlock had noticed the change in weather, but he hadn't planned to let it affect his search. As he looked up, hard droplets of water began to fall on his face. He scowled. He didn't want to stop searching- not yet.

"We should get to shelter," John said, the rain growing heavier with each drop that fell.

"Ore we could-" Sherlock was cut off by a white burst of light not that far away, striking one of the tall trees surrounding them. A clap of thunder rolled through the air almost simultaneously. "Oh, all right."

They gathered their supplies and Sherlock grabbed hold of John's sleeve. He pulled him away from the trees as another lightning bolt struck half a mile or so away, the air fizzing with life and the threat of its termination. Together they ran down the line of bushes, skidding to a halt by a mass of long, tangled branches. Several grew over each other to form a kind of canopy, the gap underneath just big enough to fit two people. Sherlock crawled in, John following.

"That came on quickly," John said as they sat getting their breath back.

"It's Gamemaker induced," Sherlock replied quietly. He wondered if the cameras and microphones stationed throughout the arena would pick up his words over the torrential downpour.

"What, so they can kill a few more people through lightning?"

"Or hypothermia, or drinking the water itself." Not to mention that it would force people to take shelter, to huddle together. _Taking matchmaking to the extreme._

"So I take it we can't drink the rain."

"You can if you have iodine."

"And _do_ you have iodine?"

"Of course. I have everything."

"Show off," John grumbled, and Sherlock grinned. Another flash of light lit up the outside world, and thunder shook the ground. Sherlock glowered like the sky was doing it to spite him.

"We almost certainly shouldn't go out in that," he sighed.

"Not unless one of us has a serious death wish. Sorry, Sherlock, but it looks like you're stuck for a while."

"That sounds familiar," he muttered darkly.

* * *

><p>"I hate thunder," Molly said out of nowhere. Their modified bush wasn't really big enough for both of them, but they hadn't had time to get anywhere else. Greg and Molly were sat as far apart as they could manage, trying to ignore the cold water worming its way in through gaps above.<p>

"Really? Why?" Greg asked. Molly blushed.

"I don't know," she replied. "It's just so… loud. Loud doesn't usually mean good. Mine accidents are loud, cannon shots are loud…. you know?"

"I think so, yeah," he said. "Well, what do you do back home when there's a storm?"

"I usually hide under a blanket," she confessed.

"Seriously?"

"Like a little kid."

"I bet you're afraid of spiders too."

"Actually, no, I don't mind animals. I even had a pet spider once."

"What? How?"

"I kept finding this spider in my room. Every time I put him outside he'd turn up again, so I decided that he must want to live with me."

"How did you even know it was the same spider?"

"I was eight. It made sense."

"Please tell me he had a name."

"Of course."

"What was it?"

"… Leggy."

"Leggy?"

"It had a lot of legs!"

"But _Leggy_-"

"I thought it was a good name at the time."

"It _is_ a good name."

"Look, I know it was stupid-"

"No, I like it. 'Leggy' the spider. Very nice. Very appropriate."

"Shut up!" she said, hitting him playfully. The thunder and lightning hit again, a dual detonation, and the humour vanished from her face. She let out an involuntary whimper.

"There aren't really many animals in Six," Greg said, trying to take her mind off of it. "How about in Twelve?"

"We have some. There are lots of stray cats."

"Oh. That's sad."

"Yeah, it is. I've always wanted to adopt one, but Mum and Dad say we can't afford it. Which is true."

"So no pets for you?"

"No, but I fed the cats sometimes when I was younger. I used to sneak little bits of my food into my sleeve and leave it out for them later on. My parents never knew."

"Until now," Greg pointed out. Molly clapped her hands to her mouth.

"Do you think they'll be cross?" she asked timidly.

"Are you kidding me?" he asked incredulously. "How could they be cross about that?"

"It was pretty wasteful. And kind of dumb." There was another explosion of light and thunder, the loudest yet. Molly jolted, knocking him.

"Sorry, sorry!" she apologised desperately.

"Don't worry about it."

"This is so stupid!" she said, frustrated.

"Quit saying things like that."

"But it is! It'sstupid to be afraid of noises." She paused. "And it's definitely stupid to try and feed stray cats old vegetables."

"I think it's lovely," he said firmly. "I think you're lovely."

"And I think you're deluded," she laughed. "It probably only encouraged the mice."

"Mice need feeding too."

"Do you have an answer for everything?"

"I don't know how to answer that."

"Arse," she said, giggling, but she soon fell back into stillness. Somewhere between the water and the thunder and the stories, the atmosphere had sunken into one of vulnerability; a mood of nostalgia and sadness.

"I bet it helped a lot," he told her. "The cat thing, I mean."

"Greg…"

"I mean it! I think it's a really nice thing to do, that's all."

"I just felt so bad for them. They were so thin… I used to find them dead on the side of the road all the time." Molly's voice grew sadder as she spoke, and Greg didn't interrupt her. "Sometimes, in winter, people would take the bodies home- for the meat, you see. I can't blame them, but I… I could never bring myself to eat it. Even when there was nothing else."

"Also not stupid," he murmured. She smiled weakly at him.

"What I'm saying is that it didn't help. It couldn't have. There were so many of them that there was no way I could make a difference."

"But you helped some," Greg pointed out.

"I should have helped more," she said, and a sudden tear rolled down her cheek. He pushed back a very strong urge to reach over and wipe it away. "That's why I wanted to be a healer… to help people. But it's the same thing- you can't help everybody. Can you?"

"No," he confirmed, "but you don't need to. Even if you only ever helped one cat, Moll, that's one cat with a better life because of you. Even if you only do a little, that can be a lot to one person."

"I don't think I've ever helped anybody," she said, voice hitching.

"You helped me," he told her softly. She looked at him, her eyes wide.

"How?"

"You gave me a place to stay. You showed me where to get berries. You didn't shoot me when you found me trespassing," he said. She laughed, but it turned into a sob halfway through.

"I can never do enough," she said shakily. "I just… I want to make it all okay. For everybody."

"I know, Moll."

Lightning struck outside, immediately followed bythunder so loud that Greg felt the ground shake underneath them. Molly cried out, and he wrapped an arm around her without having time to fully consider his actions. She didn't appear to mind.

"I want to go home," she whispered into his neck.

"Go to sleep," was all he could think to reply. "Things will seem better in the morning."

"Promise?" she asked. This time, he did wipe the tear away from her cheek. He moved slowly and carefully so that Molly was lying against his chest, and she curled up into a ball against him.

"Promise."

* * *

><p>"I love thunderstorms," Irene said wistfully, staring out at the downpour.<p>

"You're staying in here," Kate warned her. "I'm not taking care of you if you get hit by lightning."

"Spoilsport," Irene griped. "It's beautiful, though, isn't it?"

"It is," Kate agreed. They had managed to find a small cave that offered adequate protection from the storm. It had the added benefit of an open mouth, letting them watch the show in safety.

"How're we doing for supplies?" Irene asked.

"I'll check." Kate disappeared behind her to where they had stashed their various containers. "Okay, we've got a pack of throwing knives, some bullets, a pot of stew, a flask of soup, a bread roll, two apples, a bottle of water, some jerky and the cloth bag we're carrying it all in." Anything left unattended for even a second became theirs.

"My, oh my. No wonder anybody sends us anything," Irene said. "I think it would almost be offensive if they did."

"You say that, but I'd very much like some soap."

"Being dirty is fun."

"Irene, please_. _Think of the children."

"I _am _a child."

"You're eighteen!" Kate scoffed.

"Yes, but I'm still eligible for _this_, aren't I? So I must still be a child in some way or another."

"You certainly don't look underage," Kate smirked.

"Now who isn't being family friendly? Your parents would be appalled."

"I don't have any," Kate replied automatically. The comment, whilst not intended to be so, was jarring. "So I guess that's one less thing to worry about," she added, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work.

"How old are you again?" Irene asked.

"I turned eighteen the day before the Reaping."

"What a lovely birthday present."

"Tell me about it."

"So who do you live with?

"My brother, Perry. He's three years older than me. My mother died when I was seven, and I've got no idea who my father is. Or was."

"I'm sorry," Irene said sympathetically. She reached out and ran her fingers through Kate's hair. Kate rested her head against Irene's hand appreciatively.

"Thanks, but it was a long time ago now. How about you?"

"There's only me."

"Really?" Kate asked. Irene withdrew her hand and arched an eyebrow.

"Why is that so hard to believe?"

"You're from One. I would have guessed that accident rates were much lower there."

"And you would be right. No, I was the only accident. My parents didn't plan me and they certainly didn't want me."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, I do, they told me it frequently enough. When I was fourteen it all got too much and I left. I moved in with my then boyfriend- don't look at me like that, dear, men have their uses- and I never looked back."

"Did they try and contact you?"

"Never. I think they were glad."

"_You _should be glad. They sound awful."

"I wonder if they heard that," Irene said thoughtfully. "There's a good chance we're on television right now, after all."

"Mr and Mrs Adler?" Kate said loudly. "Are you listening? If you are: you're awful, awful people. If you aren't, then I really hope somebody passes on the message." Irene began to laugh, and so Kate carried on. "But thanks for your daughter anyway. She's fabulous."

"I did turn out nicely," Irene agreed.

"I'll say."

"Katelyn!" Irene scolded. "Think of your poor brother having to listen to all this."

"I wouldn't worry, he's just as bad," she said. "So who are you living with right now? Back in One, I mean."

"Myself. I've found that I'm the best candidate."

"And you're okay with being alone?"

"Kate, dear, engage your brain before your mouth. You don't have to live with somebody to share their bed."

"I still think it sounds lonely. Fun, but lonely."

"It'd be nice to have somebody around, I suppose," Irene remarked. "To do my makeup, if nothing else."

"Maybe you'll marry a nice man who can do it for you."

"Unlikely."

"A nice woman?"

"That's better."

"Do you have a girlfriend right now?"

"Interested?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Miss Adler. I'm just nosy. I think everybody needs somebody in their lives."

"Good lord, how clichéd you sound. But if you really want to know then no, I don't. I'm very good at getting into relationships; not so good at staying in them. Never mind," she shrugged. "I imagine somebody will find a way to put up with me eventually."

"'ll tell you what," Kate said. "If we escape the Games or the world breaks or something, I'll come back to One with you."

"Why shouldn't I go back to Seven with you?"

"Because we're Lumber, and you're Luxury Goods. No, I'll come to Seven- I'll even bring Perry if he promises to behave himself- and I can move in with you."

"You'd do my makeup for me?"

"Of course."

"And would you be this mystical 'person in my life'?" Irene asked, eyes twinkling. Kate smiled at her, and moved a little closer.

"Well, I think we'd have to wait and find that out for ourselves."

* * *

><p>"I can't believe we've wasted an entire day," Sherlock said in disgust. The storm was worse than ever. It hadn't budged from its overhead position since it begun; lightning and thunder remaining a simultaneous flash-bang.<p>

"I haven't heard any cannon shots save the one this morning," John commented. "So I guess their plan didn't work."

The fact that Sherlock had been sat in a small space with John for well over five hours rather indicated that it had.

"I suppose not," he said instead.

"It's probably taken out some food supplies too, I suppose."

"Ahh, yes. Luckily our vast and wide array is unharmed." Everything they currently owned was positioned at their feet. _The gun, the iodine, the sleeping bag,_ _the rope, a flask of water, the matches, the torch, the pill bottle… and some berries._

"Well, there's always the rope."

"For eating or for hanging ourselves?"

"That depends on how annoying you get."

"I'm never annoying."

"Just when I thought you'd started making sense again."

"I always make sense."

"Really? You clearly haven't heard yourself sleep-deprived."

"Yes, very funny. Speaking of sleep, isn't it your turn now?" Sherlock said. "I can do the guard shift."

Not to mention that if John slept, Sherlock could take the opportunity to catch up on valuable acting time and hopefully pull in some more sponsorship money. _It really is much easier to be in a relationship when the other person isn't involved._

Despite having spent a very long time in a very small space with John, nothing much had happened. They had discussed the numbers for a while longer and then the pills. After the fourth time Sherlock trailed off halfway through a sentence, John sighed and asked when he had last slept. When he finally got the answer out of Sherlock, John insisted that he took a nap. Immediately.

Sherlock had protested, but there was something strangely soothing about the drumming rain, even when it was punctuated by roars of thunder. It didn't help that anything he said to John, at all, was met with 'go to sleep, Sherlock'. And so he had curled up in some awkward position, given in, and managed to rest for a few hours. He did feel much better for it (not that he'd admit it).

It meant that he had not only wasted a whole day that could have been used investigating the markings, but he had wasted an entire afternoon that could have been used gaining sponsors. Sherlock scowled internally. He really did hate getting behind on things.

"Probably," John said, pulling Sherlock out his thoughts. "I don't know. It's awful out there, but maybe we should get back to looking anyway. We've been in here for a long time."

"Yes, and a few hours ago you explicitly banned me from going outside."

"That's now being outweighed by the concern that you'll actually die of frustration if you have to stay cooped in here for much longer."

Raw, genuine affection filled Sherlock's chest. It was the rooftop feeling all over again; the knowledge that somebody else in the world understood the way in which he worked. Sherlock was inches away from agreeing to go back out in the rain when John yawned.

"Sorry, sorry, ignore me," he said, but Sherlock couldn't. He was getting good at working out what would go down well with sponsors and what wouldn't, and forcing an exhausted boy- especially one who had spent four hours watching a silent vigil over his sleeping friend- out into the rain definitely fell into the latter category.

"No, don't worry about it. We'll stay here."

"Honestly, Sherlock, I'm fine."

"No, you aren't."

"I _am. _And like you said, we need the food."

"The sponsors will send something when the storm dies down," Sherlock said. John looked at him oddly.

"Oh? What makes you so sure of that?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, backtracking. "Just hoping, that's all." _Damn. _Instead of explaining further, he moved so that his entire right side was pressed up against John. _That should be sufficient distraction for any suspicious viewers._

"Go on, get some sleep," he told him. John stiffened for a moment, but then rested his head against Sherlock's, turning his face into the dark curls. The same inexplicable jolt from the Cornucopia ran through Sherlock, but he filed it away for later examination. His focus was on the almost inaudible words being spoken into his ear.

"Do you think the cameras can pick this up?" John was asking.

"What makes you ask that?" he replied out loud. _They'll fill in the gaps themselves- and luckily, it won't be with what's actually happening._

"Because you don't do 'hoping'," John muttered into Sherlock's ear. "You do calculating, and plotting, and deducing. So you're sure. What makes you so sure?"

Sherlock hesitated. Telling John what was going on would make things much easier, but it also had the potential to ruin everything; to unravel all of his careful plans. Sherlock did not want to lose this game.

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am," John added.

"Really?"

"Try me," he breathed. _That feels like a challenge._

"I don't think it's strange, no," Sherlock replied to a question that hadn't been asked. "It's not just us- lots of people have allied together this year." _Go on, then, if you insist you can keep up. Work it out._

"So it's allying?" John whispered. Sherlock was almost proud. "That's what gets you sponsors?"

"Yes, but…" Sherlock offered the floor his full attention. "I think that, maybe, for some people, it's- it's more than just an alliance." He swallowed, as though he was struggling to phrase it properly. "Maybe out there, somewhere, there's a boy and a girl- or two boys or two girls, I don't know- that feel something… deeper. For each other."

"Oh," John said hollowly after a few seconds. "You think… _that_ would get us more sponsors?"

"I know it."

There was a pause in which the rain outside and John's steady breathing formed a kind of white noise. A soft yet defeated sigh broke the calm. "This had better work," John warned, before drawing away.

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's face, then away again. He went to speak, stopped himself, then tried again.

"Hold on- how do you know that there are people in the arena who feel… what you said?" he asked, back to normal volume. "And who do you mean?"

"Just a few other tributes I met in training," Sherlock said casually. "I knew that some of them had met others that they… liked. So I suppose I wondered if…"

"What?"

"If- well, if there was anybody that you-"

"No!" John said, too quickly. "I meant no, sorry. There's not."

"It's just that- well, when you asked if sticking with people in the arena was unusual, I thought that maybe it was because there was somebody-"

"No, no, there's nobody. How about you?"

"I- no. No, there's not."

"Sure?"

"Definitely. Like you said, there's nobody."

"Okay, fine. So that's all you wanted to know?"

"Yes, that's it. I was curious, that was all."

"Okay, I see."

"Glad we cleared that up".

"Me too."

"Yes." Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. "I think you should get some sleep now."

"Yes, sleep, okay. Wake me up when the storm ends- but if you want to go out before it does, then do."

"No, I'm staying under here for a while longer. I don't want to get my hair wet."

"You utter girl," John teased, and some normalcy was restored. John adjusted himself so that he was leaning against the side of the den that was most determinedly not Sherlock. "Well, if you get bored, you can always sleep some more. There's hardly much else to do."

"I'll consider it," Sherlock said. "Goodnight." He moved to awkwardly hug John with one arm, like he was afraid to get too close. Their eyes met as Sherlock leaned over, and John's mouth twisted into a small, conspiratorial grin. Sherlock gave him a barely perceptible nod of the head. _Well played._

When Sherlock drew away only half a second later, John's face had fallen back into an embarrassed smile. He turned his head away, closed his eyes, and was soon fast asleep. Watching John sleeping quietly, Sherlock was made hyperaware of his own breathing; his own heartbeat. He noted with interest that the lying had raised his pulse.


	13. Chapter 13

The rain didn't begin to lighten until hours after the death toll (and despite the storm, day six had only claimed the male tribute from Two). It didn't stop altogether until the sun was beginning to rise. Sherlock stuck true to his word for all of that time, alternating between trying to sleep and staring at John with what he hoped was an appropriately conflicted expression.

It paid off. As soon as it was calm enough outside to do so, the parachute landed. John crawled out of the tangle of branches as Sherlock was examining their new supplies. _Soup, bread, apples- and _a_ll from the Capitol, _he noted. Clearly they had fans there.

"Morning," John greeted him.

"Morning," Sherlock answered.

"A parachute arrived, I'm guessing?"

"I did tell you people would sponsor us."

"And you were right." Sherlock stopped what he was doing, taken aback by the bitterness in John's tone. _Jealousy, presumably. That I worked it out before he did. _

But what if it went deeper? Sherlock examined John out of the corner of his eye. The boy sat still, looking at the food as if in deep thought. What if it turned out John was going to refuse to remain allied? If he was going to say that he didn't want to manipulate people, or that it was too difficult, or too strange?

If John left, it would ruin everything. It was probably too late to find a new ally in the ever-shrinking pool of tributes, and that was without factoring in that Sherlock had hated (and been hated by) nearly everybody else in training. _I knew I shouldn't have told him, _he thought bitterly.

John suddenly leant forwards, picked up a roll and tore it in two. "Then again," he said cautiously, "you usually are. Right, I mean. " He handed the larger half to Sherlock, who accepted it.

"I should probably trust that you know what you're doing," John continued. "Yeah?"

"Definitely," Sherlock agreed. He held out the hunk of bread towards John, who grinned before leaning forwards to take a bite out of it. Almost instantly, another parachute dropped from the sky. _See, John? There's method in our madness._

* * *

><p>When Molly Hooper awoke to find herself lying curled up against a boy, her first thought was that her mother was going to have a heart attack.<p>

The second was that that she always looked awful in the mornings, immediately followed by horror over the fact she hadn't had a proper bath in nearly a week now, moving onto fear that things with Greg were going to be really awkward, then panic that he might leave her as a result, and then the sickening reminder that oh, God, this was all being _broadcast, _wasn't it? Somewhere, buried deep under the avalanche of anxieties, was the quiet acknowledgment she'd be content to never move again.

Through the bush, something caught Molly's eye. She held her breath- yes, definitely a flicker of silver. She hadn't been sent anything in the arena so far, but she knew a parachute when she saw one. She also knew how quickly they could be snatched by other tributes.

Greg's arm was hugged around her protectively, like she was a treasure worth keeping. Molly couldn't see a way to untangle herself without disturbing him. She tried to slip away unnoticed, but ended up accidentally elbowing him in the stomach.

"Are you awake?" he asked, pulling his arm away.

"Sorry!" she said as she sat up properly, flustered. The air felt colder without him by her side.

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I feel awful. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's okay, you didn't. I've been up for a while."

There was a beat in which Greg realised that he had just confessed to watching Molly sleep, which she would rate somewhere between 'unwanted' and 'repulsive'.

When he had woken up earlier to find her nestled peacefully against him, he hadn't had the heart to bother her- and, if he was honest, having the chance to just sit still and _look _at her had been a very hard one to pass up. Still, what mattered was that she was no doubt thinking he was disgusting, and he could hardly blame her. _You screwed it up again. Nice._

In that same beat, all that Molly was thinking was that the rain had finally stopped.

"Didn't you see the parachute?" she asked him.

"Parachute?"

"Yeah, there's one right outside."

"Oh," he said. "No, I hadn't noticed." _Yeah, because you were paying so much attention to the outside world._

"I'll get it," she offered, and sprung up. Greg tried to make himself look slightly more presentable.

"They sent us food!" Molly said happily, holding up the sealed boxes. He climbed out to join her. "And a flask."

"Anything in it?"

"No, but we can fill it with water and go further away from the river. Well, we could if we wanted to."

"Do you want to?"

"Not really."

"Me neither. We should probably fill it up anyway, though."

"Yeah," she agreed. Molly wrapped up the food and hid it, and together they headed for the nearby stream. They reached it within minutes. Greg filled the bottle while Molly kept a lookout, bow and arrow strapped firmly to her back once again. She had stashed them in a nearby bush the night before, for the first time since she entered the arena. For some reason, she had felt safe enough to sleep without them.

"Um," Greg began, screwing the cap back on the bottle. Molly looked at him questioningly. Greg really did wish that somebody else was around to do this. A girl, preferably.

"Yes?" Molly prompted him when he didn't speak.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked tentatively.

"What do you mean?" she said, confused.

"Well, yesterday, you were kind of- sad-"

Molly's face drained of colour. "I'd forgotten about that."

"I just wanted to check you were okay."

"No, I am! That's really nice of you and I'm fine, honestly- but Greg, I'm so so sorry. That was awful of me. I'm really, really sorry. Everything's fine, honestly- I'm great, it's all great. I was being silly- I think it was the rain or something, plus I was really tired. Maybe I went mad, it doesn't matter. Please forget I ever said anything. I'm so sorry."

"What are you even apologising for?" Greg asked when she finally paused for breath.

"For being so rude!"

"What?"

"For whining and being silly and making you feel awful."

"You didn't make me feel awful!"

"That's sweet, but it wasn't fair on you. At all."

"Molly-"

"Can we stop talking about it please?" Molly asked. "Sorry, that's rude again, but… sorry."

"Okay, sure," he said. "But stop apologising."

"Sorry. Wait- that wasn't- I didn't- shh!" Molly glared as Greg started to laugh.

"Arse," she muttered. In retaliation, he squirted her with the water bottle.

"So that's how it is?" she said, and moved forwards to kick some of the river water over him. They carried on squabbling until, suddenly, he emptied the whole bottle over her. Molly shrieked and shoved him hard in the chest. He toppled from his crouching position and landed hard on the grass.

For a split second, she was terrified that she had hurt him, but then he burst into outraged laughter and she relaxed. The thought arrived in her mind unbidden: _I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you. _She pushed it away, and focused her attention back on Greg, who was crossing his arms and pouting. It was hard to stay serious faced with something like that.

"That was a bit embarrassing for you, wasn't it?" she giggled, sitting down next to him.

"Do not start a war you can't win, Molly Hooper," he warned her.

"You say that, but I'm not the one who's blushing."

"I'm not blushing," he said immediately.

"You kind of are. Ashamed that a girl can knock you over?"

"No- the thing is- I'm not-" Greg stammered out. _It's more because you touched me for 0.005 seconds, and my brain can't handle that._

"You'd better give up before you die of stuttering."

"You are an evil, evil girl."

"Would you look at that?" she said. "I think I just won."

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"_Leggy."_

"I hate you."

* * *

><p>"I didn't realise we were so close to others," Kate commented. "That could have been dangerous." Less than ten minutes away from their cave, they were sat by tangled brambles that clearly held somebody inside.<p>

"Lucky us, then- we found them before they found us."

"How do you want to play this?"

"I'll distract, you grab."

"You distracted _last _time."

"I'm very good at distracting."

"Yes, all right. Hold on, they're coming out." They waited expectantly as the tribute emerged. Irene let out a gasp.

"What?" Kate asked, concerned.

"It's _him_."

"Who's him?"

"Sherlock Holmes. District Eight."

"Is that going to a problem?"

"Problem? No. Challenge, yes."

"I'm sure you can handle it."

"Without a doubt. It's going to take a little more effort than usual, that's all. He's the one that got an eleven in training."

"Really? How?"

"I'm not sure- he certainly ran like a lamb when I pointed a knife at him. There must be something, though, so keep your distance until we've worked it out. Do you have the bag?"

"No, I thought I'd carry everything with my teeth." Kate held up the empty sack. "See you back at the cave in twenty minutes?"

"Ten."

"You said he was difficult."

"You're right. Twelve."

"Twelve it is. Take care, and try not to die."

"I'll do my best."

Irene switched into her best femme fatale mode (which Kate had to admit really was rather good), and Kate disappeared into the bushes to wait until the coast was clear.

Sherlock was sat on the grass examining something- a small bottle, Irene saw, as she crept up behind him. She was still a good ten feet away from Sherlock when he spoke without turning around.

"I wish people would stop insulting my intelligence by trying to sneak up on me," he announced, smoothly pocketing whatever the canister was. "I would have expected better from you, Miss Adler."

"Very impressive. Can I ask how you knew?"

"You can."

"How amusing. Go on, do tell."

"It was simple, really. There are eight people left in the Games; the first is myself. Your footsteps were light enough to suggest secrecy or a desire to remain unseen, at least for a short while. That means you can't be John, so that leaves six. The steps were far too light to be the boy from Five, and too heavy to be the younger girl from Twelve, or the slighter girl from Seven."

"I find that offensive."

"So that leaves the woman from One and the male tributes from Six and Seven. The attempts of men to conceal themselves are usually flawed due to their larger size and overall less agile nature. They also usually have brute force on their side, and as such tend not to attempt stealth at all. A sexist generalisation, perhaps, but one that's rarely wrong."

"Well done. Would you like a prize?"

"A simple explanation of what you want will suffice."

"You."

"Vulgarity doesn't suit you."

"I can assure you it does, but enough sweet talk. Have you noticed the numbers around the arena?"

That got his attention. "I'm listening."

"I'm guessing that most people will have missed them, or paid them little attention- but not us. We're too good for that. I've worked them out already. I take it you have too?"

"You can't have."

"That's a no, then."

"Tell me," he demanded, standing up and turning to face her.

"You're even more handsome than I remembered."

"Tell me," he repeated.

"I can do one better than that- I can show you. There's a climbing plant about five minutes from here which makes it all very clear."

"A plant?"

"Well, technically the carvings are on the ground _by _the plant, but I hope you'll forgive that little inaccuracy."

Irene was convinced he was about to agree, but then he began to chuckle softly. _Damn._

"You're clever, I'll give you that- but not clever enough. Certainly not enough to outwit _me_. I liked the inclusion of the numbers, though, nice touch."

"Thank you," she said. "I'll let you know when I work them out for real."

"I imagine that all life on Earth will be extinct by then, but I appreciate the thought. Whatever you want me away from here for isn't going to happen. I'm not going anywhere."

"I was afraid you might say that," she said sadly, and then her knife was slicing across the space where his neck should have been. He had ducked just in time.

"And I had hoped you thought me better than that," he replied, and then chopped hard at her wrist. Irene winced, but hung onto the blade. She moved to knee him in the stomach, but he grabbed her leg and pulled hard, throwing off her balance. She twisted to fall towards him and grabbed him so that they hit the ground together. He hit his head when he fell, and she used his temporary surprise to pin him to the ground. Straddling him, she pressed the knife to his neck.

"Why does this keep happening?" he complained.

"I do like you, Mr Holmes," Irene said fondly.

"Sherlock, please."

"Thank you. As I was saying, I like you. So if you give up and come quietly, then I won't have to hurt you at all. I'd like that. It really would be a shame to leave a mark on skin this perfect."

"How kind of you."

"But if you're going to keep playing up, things have to get a little nastier," she said apologetically, drawing the blade very lightly across his throat.

"Oh, put the knife away," he scoffed. "It's distinctly undignified to hold a lump of metal to somebody's neck."

"I do everything with dignity, thank you."

"Including having men pay you for sex?" Irene visibly flinched at that, but recovered quickly.

"I rather wish you'd kept that particular deduction to yourself," she said mildly.

"You can wish all you'd like, but I don't do staying quiet."

"So that's what you did in your private session? Told the Gamemakers all their dirty little secrets?"

"Yes, but some things really aren't that hard to work out; your business falls into that category. It's been what, five months?"

"Four and a half, but I'll give you the two weeks. I waited until I turned eighteen- I do have limits, you know." She paused. "And it's not _sex_, you sheltered little thing."

"Not as the primary occupation."

"Not at all."

"On occasion."

"Would you like now to be one of those occasions?" she asked, leaning forwards.

"I thought you were threatening to hurt me."

"Exactly," she purred. He snorted.

"You know, I almost find it funny. In the poorer districts, if you want to be flogged, you just steal something."

"You're nowhere near as sexy when you're being an idiot."

"Then it's a good thing that I'm never an idiot."

"Don't shoot her," a low voice ordered into John's ear. He jumped. He had returned from the river and found himself strangely frozen in place. He hadn't even noticed the girl's approach. John tightened his grip on the gun, cursing himself.

"What the hell is going on?" he spat. As far as he could see, a woman was pinning Sherlock down and holding a knife to his throat_- _and they were flirting. _What?_

"I'd tell you, but I have a feeling you wouldn't like it. Please, don't shoot."

"Give me one reason not to."

"All right, let me put it another way: if you shoot her, your cannon shot will sound before hers does."

Kate's strong voice carried out to the clearing, and Irene looked up.

"I said twelve, didn't I? That can't have been more than four," she protested. "Who's the boy?"

"That's just John," Sherlock answered, seemingly unperturbed.

"You found an ally?"

"By the look of things, so did you. I imagine that your friend is here to steal our supplies?"

"Something along those lines, yes."

"Surely just killing us would be much quicker."

"Don't be boring, Sherlock," Irene scolded. "There are things more worthwhile than efficiency." Kate and John's arrival had distracted her, so when Sherlock twisted her wrist she dropped the blade with a cry. Within moments, he had flipped her and reversed their positions. Kate went to move forwards, but John had a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Don't," he said, voice low. Kate looked at the gun in his hand and remained where she was.

"I could kill you," Sherlock told Irene, matter-of-factly, as he held her to the ground.

"Indeed you could."

"Nobody would stop me."

"I don't think Kate would be particularly impressed."

"She could avenge you, maybe- but not stop me. For one, I still have the knife."

"Keep it. We've got five more."

"On you?"

"… no."

"Then what does it matter?"

"Very well. Go on, then," she said, shutting her eyes and tilting her head back. "I hope you enjoy it. You're a very nice last sight for a girl."

Sherlock considered this, before getting to his feet. Irene looked up at him from the ground.

"Performance issues?"

"You get twenty seconds. And I'm keeping the knife."

"Until next time, Mr Holmes," Irene breathed. And then she was running with a speed Sherlock hadn't known she possessed, Kate following. Both women were gone within fifteen of the twenty seconds offered.

"Well, that was interesting," Sherlock commented, turning the knife over in his hands as John walked over. "Don't you think?"

"It was… what?" John said, shaking his head. "No, really, what?"

"Confused?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, yes. Was she trying to kill you or sleep with you?"

"I got the impression that, for her, the two are not mutually exclusive."

"Right. Okay."

It struck Sherlock that the unplanned display with Irene had probably not gained them any sponsors. _Damn. _Never mind, everything was fixable. The audience's short attention span should aid things, as long as he took them back to their regularly scheduled programming quickly enough.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Me? Yes, fine. I'm going to go back into the woods for a while, I think. Keep on searching for bottles and numbers and… things."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'll come too."

"No, you should stay here and guard the supplies."

"They'll be fine."

"Just to make sure."

"I don't want you to go alone."

"And I don't want you to come with me." Sherlock stepped back and looked at John, but John wouldn't look at him. _The jealousy angle?_ _Interesting. _

"Have I upset you?" Sherlock frowned.

"No. I just want to be alone for a little while."

"You're awful at lying, you know. Come on- what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"_John._"

"Sherlock.

"Look- don't go," he said gently, moving closer. "Please?" He laid a hand against John's arm and ran his thumb lightly over the skin, eyes flickering from his fingers back up to John's face. John hesitated for a moment, looking torn, before tearing his arm away.

"You're unbelievable," he said in disgust.

Sherlock drew back like he'd been stung. They stood in silence for a few seconds before John left, without another word. Sherlock stood and watched him go; hurt and confusion clear on his face. Neither of them were sure quite where the acting began and ended.

* * *

><p>"You're sure our things will be fine?" Molly checked.<p>

"You've got your bow and arrows, and I've got flask. All that's left is the food our sponsors sent, and we hid that."

"Yeah, we did," Molly said, but she sounded unconvinced. She looked over at the river and bit her lip anxiously.

"We can go back if you want," Greg offered.

"No, it's fine," she said. "But, um-"

"Don't worry, I won't look."

"I know_ that. _ I was actually going to ask if you could take this." Molly pulled the bow off of her back and held it out to Greg. He stared at her.

"You're giving me your bow?"

"Well, it would be pretty difficult to take a bath with it on."

"But you don't give people your bow."

"I don't give people my arrows either, but here." She held them out and he took them and the box gingerly.

"What if I break them?"

"You're not going to break them. I trust you."

"Go on, pile on the pressure."

"Sorry," she apologised.

"I'm kidding, Moll. It'll be fine, I'm sure."

"Do you know how to fire arrows?"

"Kind of. I'm better with a gun."

"If I could conjure you one of those, then I would. Until then, just point and fire."

"Thank you for that master tutorial."

"Arse."

He grinned. "Go on, hurry up. It'll be fine." He turned around and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the distance, looking for any potential threats.

"It's hotter today," he commented.

"And it's weird talking to you while I'm undressing," she said, and he heard her step into the water.

"I need a way of checking you're okay, and I'm not exactly going to look at you naked."

"I'm not naked!"

"In your… underclothes, then."

"Underclothes? _Really_?"

"Oh, hurry up and wash your hair."

"Yes, sir," she laughed. A few minutes later, she said "It's freezing, by the way."

"That's okay. It'll only take me about two minutes to get clean."

"And how long do you think it will take me?"

"Hours. Days. You're a girl, Moll."

"Really? What gave it away?"

"The nagging, mostly. Ow!" he said, as she threw a small pebble at him. "Attack! That was an attack! You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

"Like you'd know how."

"See, now why is it okay when_ you_ say things like that?"

"I'm done," she ignored him, pulling her uniform back on. "How many hours was that?"

"I don't know. You took so long that I lost all track of time."

"You can turn around now."

"Are you going to throw something at me?"

"Probably."

"Then thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't b- hey, what's that?"

"Do you really think I'm that gullible?"

"No, I'm serious! Check this out."

Greg turned around warily, but Molly was genuinely examining something by the river. He crouched down beside her to look, and she moved her hand so he could see. He rested the bow and arrows on the ground.

"'CXL'?" he asked. "What's that?"

"It's a number."

"One of those Capitol numeral things?"

"That's what Irene- the girl I was with- said, yeah. We saw some of them around the arena."

"What do they mean?"

"I don't know. Irene never said, and I was too worried about other things to pay them much attention. But I haven't seen any for ages, now I think about it."

"This is when I really wish I'd paid more attention in school," Greg said, cautiously probing the mark with a twig. "I only know the numerals up to fifty."

"I was always rubbish at anything with numbers. Can you work any of it out?"

"I'm pretty sure 'XL' is forty, but I can't remember what the 'C' means."

"Fifty?"

"No, that's 'L'."

"One hundred?"

"It could be, yeah. So one hundred and forty?"

"One hundred and forty," she repeated. She paused. "And what does that mean?"

"… I don't know. How did it even get there?"

"It looks like somebody carved it," she said thoughtfully, brushing her fingers over the number. She jolted backwards suddenly, snatching her hand away.

"What's wrong?"

"It moved," Molly gulped.

"What do you mean? What moved?"

"The ground, it- it pulsed or something. Only slightly, but it definitely did. Look!" she said, pointing at the mark. The edges were becoming less defined and the indents pushing up to meet the surface, eroding in reverse. It was like nothing Molly had ever seen.

"That's not the weirdest thing," Greg said, moving closer to the river. Beneath the crystal surface, small slits were opening up in the bank. The dirt parted to form multiple openings, and Greg watched as a flurry of silver began to pump through the vents.

The pores began to close after a few seconds, and shut completely as the last trace of the engraving disappeared. The slips of silver remained, shimmering in the water.

"What are they?" Molly asked, looking over his shoulder.

"They're fish," he said in disbelief.

"What?"

"They're fish," he repeated. Sure enough, a small shoal of fish was swimming up and down the stretch of water that had, moments before, been empty. "What the hell?"

"It can't have been me touching it," Molly said. "I had my hand on it for ages before anything happened."

"So it was random?"

"The Gamemakers must have done it- but why now?"

"Oh," he breathed, as an idea slowly uncurled in his brain. "What if…"

"What?"

"How long have we been in here for?"

"This is the seventh day, I think- so six days."

"What's six times twenty-four?"

"I told you, I'm useless at math- wait, you think it's to do with time?"

"I think it could be. Hold on a second." He thought hard, counting out multiples on his fingers to double check. "Six days is one hundred and forty-four hours. What time did we get put into the arena at?"

"I don't know- maybe three-ish?"

"And what time do you think it is now?"

"Earlier than that. A bit before midday."

"So that's six days minus a few hours. One hundred and forty four minus 'a few hours'… "

"One hundred and forty," she finished for him. "So the marks are a… schedule?"

"Yeah! So one hundred and forty hours in, this part of the river gets fish," he grinned, but then something sour hit him.

"Do you think they can… that the Gamemakers are doing bad things as well as good things?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"There were berry bushes when we first got here, and they were full. But then overnight they all died, all at once. I thought that I was just remembering things wrong, but what if it was planned? Like this?"

"And the berries changing," she said. "The ones that went from red to orange?"

"That must have been the same thing. There's no way that can happen naturally."

"Did you see any numbers?" she asked.

"I wasn't looking for them," he admitted. "And they'll all be gone now."

"Of course, yeah. So that's why there are less of them now! They vanish when the thing happens, so the ones from the first few days are gone."

"So if you see a number-"

"- you know that something's going to happen there, that many hours in-"

"- but not if it's good or bad."

"And we know we're one hundred and forty hours right now, so we can keep a track of time…"

"… which means we can know when things are going to happen."

"You worked it out!" she exclaimed.

"Hey, come on! _We _worked it out."

For a second, he thought she was going to disagree. Instead, she started to beam.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I guess we did."


	14. Chapter 14

Eight days before Molly and Greg were broadcast working out the code, Thomas Lucan swept into a room filled with utter chaos.

"Sir!" one man cried, grabbing at his sleeve. Lucan fixed him with a glare and the man dropped it hastily. _Wise move._

"Sir, I wanted to let you know- to _ensure_that you knew- that I am nothing but loyal to you and to the Capitol. I would never do anything to endanger the safety of the-"

"Shut up, Harris," Lucan said mildly. He knew Harris was having traitorous thoughts; had known it long before that skinny district boy walked into his gym.

People tended to think the only way to deal with a problem like Harris was immediate execution. Lucan disputed this. He employed another method: keeping the traitor around and feeding them false facts. You let them believe that they were getting somewhere when they were merely chasing ghosts. You could even garner information about the rebel force if you played your cards wisely, which Lucan tended to do.

And _then_you killed them.

"Of course, sir," Harris said, scuttling away obediently. The room was filled with Gamemakers, flittering around and jabbering anxiously.

"Sit down," he ordered, and they fled to their seats like schoolchildren. He stood observing them. As Head Gamemaker, it was his duty to sort this out.

"What are we going to do?" a young Gamemaker named Azaiah burst out before he could speak. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"About what?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what? The boy from Eight, what else?" she said, voice growing louder.

"Know your place, Azaiah," Lucan said gravely. The woman glared at him, but Lucan met her gaze and held it. She dropped her head.

"I'm sorry," she replied meekly.

"That's better." Lucan took his seat at the head of the table. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"But the boy, sir," one Gamemaker interrupted. "The things he knew… how could he know them?"

"It must have been a trick," another replied. "There's no way he could have guessed all of that."

"Is he a rebel weapon?" one woman demanded. "Some kind of mutt made to be used against us?"

"It would make sense if he was a mutt," somebody agreed. "But how did the rebels get that kind of technology?"

"Stop it," Lucan ordered loudly. Everybody hushed. "You're letting yourselves get worked up over nothing. The boy's not a mutt. Don't you think we check these things when we select tributes? Are you seriously doubting the Capitol? Are you doubting _me?_"

"No, sir," the hasty replies came.

"I should hope not. Now, can somebody tell me, in a calm and mannered way, exactly why this boy has caused you all so much concern?"

"If I may, sir?" one woman volunteered. Lucan looked at her. _Luci Helms._A slight, meek blonde thing that hadn't even been mentioned when the boy did his act. It could be assumed, therefore, that she would hold a more objective view. He nodded.

"Go on, Luci," he told her. She offered a flickering smile and then began.

"It's not just him, sir. Things are different this year. Everybody's said so."

"Really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Who is everybody?"

"The trainers, sorry, sir. The trainers and the escorts have mentioned it, and we've noticed it too. The tributes this year are much… closer than usual."

"Closer to what?"

"To each other, sir. They're interacting much more. They're sitting together, talking- even spending time together outside of training."

"What?" he asked, alarmed. "That's forbidden."

"No, sir, we checked. Fighting's forbidden, but friendship isn't. It's heavily discouraged, of course, but it's never usually a problem. This year, though…"

"And the boy from Eight- this 'Sherlock Holmes'- is a part of this?"

"Yes, though he's one of the more solitary tributes. He spends time with a few people, but he's much less social than some of the younger ones."

"That's probably because he's unbearable," one man supplied bluntly. Lucan couldn't place the name (did he really have to have so many damn Gamemakers?), but he recognised the man's piercing blue eyes. "According to his escort, he's- apologies for the language, sir- a little shit."

"But he has formed _some_attachments?"

"It seems so, sir, yes."

"Then we have a problem," Lucan said gravely. "That boy is certainly not the first person to ever rebel in a private session. Equally, this isn't the first year to have one or two tributes forming relationships. It makes very little difference. Those who form meaningful alliances are usually those too weak to remain alone, and they die very quickly."

"What about District One and Two?"

"I said 'meaningful'. Do you think there's any sentiment in those alliances?"

They had all lived for enough years and watched enough Games to know the answer was 'no'.

"Now, we can handle rebellion," Lucan continued. "We can handle friendship. But, as of yet, the two have never occurred simultaneously."

"Really?" Luci asked. "Never?"

"The rebels tend to despise anything they perceive as being to do with the Capitol or the Games, and as such remain alone. Those who ally are fearful and young, and would never stand up to a force like us. They two groups are antitheses. But you say the boy from Eight is forming friendships?"

"I wouldn't call them friendships as such," one Gamemaker who been watching them said. "There are two people- well, one person- who I would say that he's at all close to. Yes, the boy from Twelve. That's all."

"It only takes one," he said grimly.

"What do you mean, sir?" Luci asked.

"Let me paint a picture for you. In the arena, the boy from Eight and his friend remain together. The boy says 'this feels wrong'. His friend replies 'I don't want to kill anybody'. The boy replies 'then we don't have to', and suddenly you've got two tributes who have talked each other into pacifism."

"But surely they'll die before that can have any effect," his informant said. Lucan looked at him.

"You said two at first, but changed it to one. Why?"

"Well, there's the girl from Twelve, but she really only talks to the boy from Twelve."

"That's exactly what I mean. The boy from Eight convinces the boy from Twelve not to fight. The boy from Twelve convinces the girl from Twelve. She convinces others. The children start to believe that they can stay with their friends; that nobody has get hurt. Before you know it, you've got an arena of twenty-four tributes stood there, refusing to attack- looking at you and saying 'now what?'"

Lucan paused to let this sink in. A panicked murmur began to spread through the Gamemakers.

"What do we do?" Azaiah asked.

"We don't give them the chance," he said darkly. "Whenever there's a reduced chance of tribute-induced death, you increase the chance of arena-induced death."

"So we make the arena more dangerous?"

"Yes. More deaths mean more partnerships get split in two. Rebellion is much less likely when it's only one person against everybody else."

"So that stops them from actively rebelling- but will it stop them from passively rebelling?" Azaiah asked. "From refusing to fight?"

"It will if we're clever about it. We need to create a system whereby the tributes don't realise what the danger is until it's too late. Their friends die around them and they don't know why. They panic. They forget their values. They kill. Problem solved."

"But what if they make the dead into martyrs?" Azaiah asked unsurely. "Once they work out the deaths were caused by the Capitol-"

"The deaths will have been caused by their own stupidity," he cut her off icily. "There will be nothing to avenge, no martyrdom. You're over-estimating them. Their friends will die, and they will move on and forget."

"Some die, so the rest get scared, so they kill, so more die, so more get scared," Luci grinned. "I like it."

"There's no way we can do it in time," Azaiah argued. "They're going into the arena in two days!"

"We can do it," he said firmly. "We have contingency plans for multiple scenarios. We'll find one that fits this, apply it, and have everything in place by the time that gong sounds."

"I've been working on something since I joined," Luci offered. She blushed. "A little event based system. Events occur at set times, with numbers around the arena specifying when they'll occur."

"They're visible? Why would you let them know when something's going to kill them?" he frowned.

"That's assuming they'll work it out, sir- which is doubtable. If they do, these events can be good- berries flourishing on a bush, a gift being produced- or deadly. They have no way of knowing until it occurs."

"Oh, that's _gorgeous,_" he murmured. "They won't know whether to flee or thank the gods. That'll add to the confusion nicely."

"And the number disappears straight afterwards," she continued. "They might doubt each other- their ally said there were berries on a bush, and when they go to look, there are none. They might start to doubt themselves- they saw something, and now it's gone, with no sign of how it happened."

Lucan looked at Luci, and made a mental note to recommend her for Head Gamemaker once he had retired.

"Not to mention it would keep the kid from Eight busy," somebody said. "Random numbers with no clear meaning? He'd love it."

"Then it's decided," Lucan said. "We'll implement the system immediately."

"How about layout?" the man with the blue eyes asked. "The shelter pods are pretty close together. Should we move them apart?"

"No. No, leave them as they are," he said. "We don't have time to do a complete redesign."

"I could delete some," he offered. "That increases the danger."

"Tell you what, let's go one better. Delete the water source on one side. I don't care which."

"Won't that drive them together, sir?"

"So? There's no point having them scared and ready to shoot if there's no one around to meet their bullet."

"We're having guns?" Azaiah asked. Lucan supressed a groan. He was going to have to get rid of Azaiah soon. She questioned him far too much.

"We have to. It's less impressive, I know, but we can't play this one for effect. We just need to try and get the damn thing over and done with. It's the Quarter Quell next year; we'll make up for it then."

There was a general murmur of approval.

"We still need to discuss scores," somebody said. "Do we score him low?"

"No. Let's do the opposite. A high score means he's more likely to be seen as a threat and attacked."

"Nine?" somebody said.

"Why don't we go even further?" Luci suggested. "A score of eleven would really highlight him. Nobody ever gets above ten."

"Eleven it is." Lucan settled back in his chair and smiled. "See? I told you that we would deal with this."

"I wish we didn't have to," somebody sighed, shaking their head. "I can't believe that we managed to Reap a rebel _and_the only person in the world who'll put up with him."

"Who's also the only person in the world that he'll put up _with_," Azaiah muttered. "What did we do to deserve this bad luck?"

"You think they'll live more than a day?" Lucan said. "His friend can use a gun, but he's underweight, underdeveloped, weak. Good as dead already. As for the freak- yes, he can tell you what you ate for breakfast, but so what? Can he wield a knife? Defend himself in hand-to-hand combat? He'll die, and nobody will ever know there was anything special about him."

"There's not," the man with the blue eyes said gruffly. "He's an offering. A playing piece. Nothing more."

"Quite right," Lucan said whole-heartedly.

And four days later, when the boy from Eight was dying of dehydration and the boy from Twelve was having a breakdown over his first kill, Lucan allowed himself to take pleasure in a job well done.

* * *

><p>Eight days later, John was sitting by the river, head in his hands, trying to think clearly. He had been sat there for at least two hours, and the sky was growing dark.<p>

_This is completely ridiculous_, he chastised himself._Stop acting like such a kid and get a sense of time and place._John straightened up, but he still didn't feel any different. Nothing had magically clicked into place in his brain. Rationality wasn't coming easily today.

What was coming easily was moping, sulking, whatever you wanted to call it. It was inappropriate and self-indulgent, and John was ashamed of himself. He was angry at himself. But most of all- overwhelmingly- he was hurting.

Because, damnit, he had _liked_ Sherlock. He still did. Exactly how he liked Sherlock had been where the confusion lay. It was only recently that it he had figured it out- and now that he'd realised, he couldn't imagine ever _not_knowing. It was all-consuming, undeniable. _And really badly timed._

He liked Sherlock in the way Harry had liked Clara. He liked Sherlock in the way he himself had liked Clara, except multiplied by a thousand for every cell in his body. He liked Sherlock in the way that he was pretending to like Sherlock.

The hurt didn't come from the feeling itself- he had grown up with far greater concerns than whether he liked boys or girls- but from the implications it carried. The fact that he had killed somebody Sherlock knew. The knowledge that Sherlock couldn't live unless John died, and vice versa. And, of course, having to pretend he had something he genuinely wanted, with the entirety of Panem watching.

He had half-believed, beforehand, that Sherlock felt the same way that he did. _That_hurt too; he cursed himself for not having seen the revelation coming. Of course there was a reason for the way Sherlock was acting. Everything Sherlock did had a reason, and not one born of something as pointless as affection.

Even after that, he had hung onto shreds of hope. He hadn't fully accepted what was happening until that damn parachute arrived. It was confirmation. A sign that, yes, the Capitol believed they were together. It was the prize Sherlock had promised, proof that he really was only playing a game. And then, of course, Irene-

_Oh, don't start thinking about that again. This is stupid enough as it is._

John couldn't help it. It had felt like a betrayal. Every time Sherlock smiled at John it cut him up inside. Even when it felt good or right, that was tainted by guilt; the feeling that he was being inappropriate. He couldn't win, but he stayed anyway: if it was helping to keep himself and Sherlock alive, it was worth it. John had been working hard to ignore whatever his heart tried to tell him and to do what he needed to: to appear caring, and longing, and most of all, devoted.

Sherlock, apparently, hadn't got that memo.

It felt as though John had made the effort for nothing, and that stung. And if some tiny part of him hurt on a deeper, more personal level (_she's so intelligent and she's so beautiful and he looked at her for longer than he's ever looked at you_), then that was just another stupid little thing his heart tried to tell him.

Blended in with the hurt was the almost equally overbearing guilt. Guilt over the dead, guilt over the killed, guilt over his lack of guilt over the dead and the killed, all topped off with utter disdain for everything he was becoming.

With no small amount of effort, John pushed it all to the back of his mind and forced himself to think things through. What was he going to do now? He ran through his options.

One- He could stay with Sherlock and continue as they were. They would keep on getting sponsors, and either Sherlock would be killed and John would grieve, or John would be killed which he couldn't do much about, or it would come down to the two of them and the one gun.

Two- He could stay with Sherlock but tell him to drop the romance. Either Sherlock would leave, John's use long gone, or he would stay and they would stop getting sponsors. Then it was much more likely that Sherlock would die and John would grieve, or John would die and Sherlock would… do something. But it was much less likely that neither of them would, and the gun would become of irrelevance.

Three- He could call off the alliance and continue alone. He wouldn't have to deal with looking at Sherlock, or being around Sherlock, or sitting close to Sherlock and pretending not to like him so he could pretend to like him. And then maybe John would get killed, or maybe Sherlock would get killed- but if he did, all John would know about it would be a picture in the sky.

John was trying to be rational. The most sensible option seemed to be the third, and so that was the one he chose. He stood up, mind made up. He started to walk away but then hesitated. After a few steps, John turned back and began to walk the other way. He would go back to the camp one final time- to let Sherlock know his decision, and to see him for the last time.

He knew that this was _not_a rational decision, but you can't always win.

* * *

><p>John had spent the walk trying to think of things to say, and failing miserably. As he hovered at the edge of their temporary refuge, he gave it one final attempt.<p>

_Thank you for making what are probably the last days of my life slightly less awful._

_I hope you don't die- though of course, that means I would, which complicates things._

_I hope Heaven is real, for both of our sakes._

It was no use. He would have to make it up as he went along- he couldn't afford to waste any more time. The light was dying, and it was getting harder to make out where he was going. Leaving this late in the evening wasn't a good idea, but he could deal with that. Maybe Sherlock would give him the torch.

The first kick was hard, to the back of John's knees, and he dropped to the ground. Then a boot stamped on his hand, and he released the gun with a cry. The tribute reached down to grab it, and John swung his fist to catch him in the face. The boy stumbled, cursing, and John grabbed the gun back and got to his feet. He dodged the first blow the tribute swung, but the second caught him in the gut and he doubled over. He raised the gun, but the boy slammed into him and John dropped it again.

John tried to imitate the boy's style by punching him in the stomach, but he was the huge tribute from Five; he didn't even seem to feel it. Again, he reached for the gun, but John did the same. They grappled over it and John managed to pull it towards himself. The boy let go to instead grab John's finger, wrenching until there was a sickening crack. John screamed and dropped the weapon. The boy grinned.

Before he could shoot, though, John was up and running. His attacker followed, footsteps heavy behind John's. There was no doubt that the boy was much stronger than John, but he was also larger and slower, and John was getting away.

Then the boy began to fire. He wasn't overly confident with shooting- even less so in the dark- but he was close enough to John that the shots were barely missing him. The first bullet hit the ground steps behind John; the second skimmed his ear. Distracted, his foot caught on a stone and he stumbled. He didn't fall, but he had slowed enough for the tribute to catch up with him. The boy wasn't grinning anymore.

His fist connected with John's chin, and then again with his cheek. He swung the gun to smack hard against John's temple, and John fell to his knees. He tried to defend himself, but the boy was hitting him over and over again and he couldn't get the chance to even move. The boy struck John hard across the jaw, and John felt one of his teeth come loose.

The tribute hauled John to his feet. He struck John hard in the stomach, and he retched. He did it again, and the broken tooth fell dropped the mud. The boy slammed John's head back against the tree, and the world turned fuzzy at the edges. _Just l__et it be over._The boy pinned him still with one hand, and raised the gun to John's forehead with the other.

Before he could pull the trigger, he was knocked sideways by a strong punch to his neck. The gun clattered to the ground, and John automatically staggered towards it. He had no intentions of shooting, but he didn't much want to be shot either. His fingers closed clumsily around the weapon as Sherlock hit the huge tribute again, and then once more.

"Run away," Sherlock told the boy, standing back as he spat out a mouthful of blood. "This is your chance. Go on. We won't follow you."

The boy looked at him curiously, uncertainly.

"I mean it," Sherlock said. Suddenly, the boy stumbled forwards as if he was about to fall. Sherlock automatically reached out his hands to steady him, and the tribute's hand moved to Sherlock's belt and snatched his knife. Sherlock paled as the boy drew back his arm, ready to plunge the blade into Sherlock's chest. With the dense undergrowth surrounding them, there was no way he could run away in time.

The boy dropped the knife as the bullet entered his brain. He was dead before he knew what had happened.

Sherlock looked around wildly as the cannon sounded to see John calmly lowering the gun. His face was streaked with blood and dirt, he was holding his left hand awkwardly against his stomach, and he looked like he was ready to sleep for a thousand years. Sherlock approached him as John leaned heavily against a nearby tree. He had started to shake slightly, and his breathing was laboured and painful.

"I fucking hate forests," was all John said. Sherlock's face cracked into a smile.

"Do you need to sit down?" he asked.

"No," John replied, before sliding down to sit at the base of the tree. "Or maybe. One of the two." Sherlock sat down next to him and looked out into the forest, cloaked by the growing darkness. John by his side, Sherlock leant back against the bark and breathed in the night.

"Déjà vu," he muttered to himself.

"Rooftop?" John said, overhearing.

"Quite. Except I think there was less blood then."

"I seem to remember it that way, yeah." A few feet away, the hovercraft picked up the body and carried it away. They watched it in silence.

"Did you make that shot with your right hand?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Yeah."

"And you're left-handed?"

"Yeah."

"I think the Gamemakers may have underestimated you."

"We can't all get elevens," John laughed. They fell back into quietness for a short while.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"You have just killed a boy."

"Yes, that's true." John paused. "But… he wasn't a very nice boy."

"No… no, he wasn't really, was he?"

John leant back on his arms. "Ouch," he hissed, yanking his hand back up.

"What's wrong?"

"I think my finger's broken," he grimaced.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, shooting his hand out to… he wasn't quite sure. His fingers hovered awkwardly before returning to his lap. John didn't seem to notice.

"Oh yeah, it'll be fine. People have put up with a lot worse than this. It hurts, that's all."

"Is there anything that will help?"

"I'll try splinting it. The bone hasn't broken the skin, so it shouldn't get infected if I use a twig."

Sherlock nodded. "It's getting late. We should get back to the camp," he said. "Are you okay to walk?"

"Sure," John said, getting to his feet. "I'll do the splint now, if that's okay." Sherlock waited as John untied Harry's hairband from his wrist and found a twig. He pressed it to his finger, but it slipped from his grip when he tried to tie the cloth around it. He swore under his breath.

"Here," Sherlock said, taking the cloth from him. John held the twig in place as Sherlock wrapped the bandage around and tied it carefully. John mumbled his thanks, and they began to walk, relying on the watery moonlight streaming through the branches. They only spoke once.

"Why didn't you call me when Jupiter attacked you?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, was that his name?"

"Answer the question."

"What question?"

"Why didn't you call me? I only heard you shout once, and I get the impression that wasn't intentional."

"I didn't want him to hurt you," John said, like there was nothing to discuss.

"But he was going to hurt _you_."

"I know," John said simply. Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that.

"You should sleep," he ordered when they reached their temporary home.

"Who's the Healer here?"

"Who's currently dribbling blood?"

"That's just my tooth," John objected, wiping his mouth.

"Your _missing_tooth. Sleep," he said. John reluctantly crawled under the canopy, and Sherlock followed.

"How about you?" John protested as Sherlock set the knife and gun back with their other supplies. "Like you said, it's late."

Sherlock didn't answer. John shrugged and lay down, setting his hand gently out to the side. Sherlock looked at him, and his mind waged a brief civil war. Deciding that he had earned the right to give into emotion just this once, Sherlock lay down awkwardly beside him.

There was no danger anymore, but Sherlock's nerves hadn't calmed down and adrenaline still pumped desperately around his body. For the first time since he entered the arena, he had felt genuinely, properly, completely afraid. He was bitterly aware of John's broken bone, and his missing tooth, and the bruises and cuts decorating his face. The image of the gun pressed against John's head was still live in his mind, showing no signs of going anywhere.

John froze as a warm, pale arm draped across his waist, the curled hand resting loosely on the ground by his chest. Sherlock's breath was soft and hot against the back of his neck.

"Look-" John began, very quietly. "Can we not? The sponsors-"

"No, it's not that. Forget the sponsors," Sherlock said, and he meant it. _They don't have a part to play. Not in this._

"Then why-"

"I want to know- to check- you're okay. That's all."

"You don't have to," John said. "I don't need protecting."

"No, I know that." Sherlock said, frustrated. "It's- look, John, I'm a very selfish person. I don't often do things for other people, and this is no exception. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He didn't want to sleep- he wanted the proximity. There was something reassuring, something calming, about the physical proof that John were there, and that he was okay. Sherlock could feel his chest rise and fall under his arm, reassurance that he was still breathing. He moved his fingers to press against John's outstretched wrist, reassurance that his heart was still beating.

"Yeah," John said slowly. "At least, I think so." He carefully moved his good hand to lie on top of Sherlock's, and suddenly sleep didn't seem like such a bad option.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fun fact: I originally intended for this series to have ten chapters. Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha.**

**I think it's going to end up having between 20 and 25- around 22, I would think. We'll see!**

**Everybody who's reviewing/alerting/favouriting: you are fantastic. You are the best kind of people. Thank you.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up the second he heard the footprints outside. He squinted through the leafy canopy; judging by the light, it was early morning. He unwrapped himself from John's side (<em>oh, so that actually happened?)<em> and crawled outside.

"If you're here to attack me, I should let you know that I've dealt with much worse," he said. The boy spun around.

"I'm not here to attack you," he said immediately. "I didn't know anybody was here."

"I know," Sherlock said, yawning. "You would have attacked under the cover of darkness, not waited until morning. You would have presumably had a weapon, and you would have actually been _facing _towards the place you were aiming for."

The boy shifted uncomfortably. "We're going now, so-"

Somebody appeared behind him. "What's going on?" the girl asked.

"We need to go," the boy replied. But the girl had caught sight of Sherlock, and she stayed in place for a moment. When Sherlock looked at her, she gave him a feeble wave. He frowned.

"Do I know you?"

"Do you know him?" the boy asked.

"Yes, we met in training."

"Did you?"

"Did we?" Sherlock asked.

"Who is he, Moll?" the boy asked, standing slighter closer to her.

"His name's Sherlock Holmes," she said. "The boy who got an eleven in training."

"Ahh, the universal title," Sherlock muttered.

"I remember you!" the boy said.

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I saw you in training too! I'm Greg."

"You're obviously the boy from Six, and your friend is the girl from Twelve. But I can't say I _remember _either of you as such."

"Molly?" the girl offered. "Molly Hooper?"

"Er…"

"District Twelve?" she tried. "I spent a few days with you? I used to work with John."

"Oh, _that _Molly Hooper."

"Are there others?" she asked, laughing uncertainly. He ignored her.

"Would you rather to talk to John?" he asked.

Molly's face lit up. "You know where he is?"

"He's here. I'll get him for you." Sherlock crawled back in, glad to get away, and shook John by the shoulder. "You've got visitors," he said as John stirred.

"Wha?" John mumbled.

"The girl from your district. She'd like to say hello."

"Molly?" John asked, waking up properly now. "She's here? And okay?"

"She seems to be dragging a dull lump of a human around with her, but other than that she's fine. She's just outside."

"Fantastic!" John exclaimed, sitting up and clambering out. A few seconds later, he poked his head back in. "_Sherlock," _he said sternly.

"What?"

"Come on."

"What?"

"Out."

"Why? They're here to see you."

"They're not 'here' to see anybody."

"Good, then I don't have to talk to them."

"You like Molly!"

Sherlock snorted.

"You put up with Molly!"

"And you're putting up with a broken finger. It doesn't mean that either is a pleasurable experience."

"Could you try and not be awful for just ten seconds?"

"My time is far too valuable to be wasted like that. I'll simply stay in here until they're gone."

"I wouldn't have thought that the people of Panem would like that, Sherlock," John said, vaguely threateningly. Sherlock glared. _Damn. _Although the night beforehand genuinely hadn't been for the sponsors benefit, it certainly fit in nicely with things. Sherlock hadn't lost this game yet, and he wasn't one for giving up.

John hadn't known somebody could _crawl _sullenly, but Sherlock somehow managed it.

Molly and John collided together, laughing and hugging each other tightly.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" Molly said.

"Come on, have a bit of faith," John grinned. He pulled back to examine her.

"You're okay?" he said questioningly.

"I'm great, yeah. But you…" The smile dropped from her face as she took him in. Out in the light, Sherlock had to admit it looked bad. John's face was still caked with blood, his left eye was swollen and dark, and bruises were beginning to blossom all over his skin. Anger and remorse hit Sherlock hard. _I should have gotten there sooner. I should have done more._

"Is that broken?" she said, lightly touching his splinted finger.

"I think so."

"Somebody got you pretty badly, didn't they?"

"I don't know why you're so astonished about injury. These are the Hunger Games, after all," Sherlock said. The comment was only partly intended for Molly.

"No, I do know that, I just- it's not nice, is it?" she said quietly. She raised her hand to touch John's face, and Sherlock and Greg sprang forwards simultaneously.

"Yes, that's quite enough of-"

"C'mon, Moll, we'd better be-"

"Are you going already?" John asked, as they obediently stepped apart.

"Can we stay for a little while?" she beseeched Greg.

"No," Sherlock said immediately.

"I don't know if it's a good idea," Greg said unsurely.

"I haven't seen John in ages, and I might not- well. He's from home."

Greg softened. "Right. Sorry. If you want to stay, then of course we can. If it's okay with John and Sherlock, I mean."

"Of course it is. Right, Sherlock?" John turned around. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was crouched a few feet away, examining a plant intently. "John, look at this!"

"Sorry," John apologised to Greg and Molly, heading over. "What is it?" he hissed.

"There," Sherlock said, pointing at the ground. When John leant in, he could see a small carving on the dirt, partially hidden by the grass.

"How did you even spot that?"

"What's going on?" Molly asked John, bouncing over. Greg trudged warily behind her.

"Oh, it's just these weird number things he's obsessed with. Don't-"

"Oh, the Capitol Numerals?" Greg asked casually, leaning against a tree.

"You noticed them too?" John asked.

"Noticed them? We worked them out," Greg said. John winced sympathetically as Sherlock spun around and closed the gap between him and Greg in a few bounds.

"What?" he demanded, his face inches from Greg's. "When?"

"Y-yesterday morning. They're a schedule."

This meant very little to John, but Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Of course," he muttered. "Of course, it all makes sense. John, it all makes sense!"

"Does it? Good."

"They're time, time in hours. They let you know when something's going to happen. Oh, it all fits- before, when it rained, there was a mark on the ground! I _thought _it was too automatic, too specific, but I was too grateful to question it further. Stupid, stupid! I didn't see what the number was- it dissolved into mud- oh, unless it _didn't_-"

"They disappear after the thing happens," Molly confirmed excitedly. "That's why there are less of them now."

"The mark by the river," John said suddenly. "I didn't see it when I went back, after the fish had disappeared It wasn't there."

"That means these things can be good or bad, and you have no way of telling which," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Planned slaughters, mixed in with delivered aid, so the children never know if they're going to be cured or killed. Oh, that is _fantastic_!"

Molly and Greg looked a little taken aback. "Sherlock," John said warningly. Sherlock glanced over at him.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

"How did you even work it out?" John said Molly.

"This river we were by… it kind of _generated _fish. It was really strange. We saw it happen, saw the mark fade away and put two and two together," Molly said.

"That's brilliant!" John said.

"Hardly," Sherlock dismissed. "They happened to be in the right place and the right time- it's not exactly brilliant that they made the obvious jumps."

"We still worked it out before you," Greg said defensively. Sherlock twitched slightly.

"Yes, well-"

"So what does this mark say?" Greg asked, wandering over to examine the plant. Sherlock followed him agitatedly, and John had to smirk. _Somebody's invading his territory._

"'CLX', one hundred and sixty," Sherlock said.

"The one we saw was 'one hundred and forty'," Molly offered. "That was yesterday morning. A bit later than this."

"Twenty hours ago. So this one could go off at any moment," Sherlock said.

"I want to see," Molly said, sitting down next to him. He didn't appear to notice. He continued scrutinizing the plant.

"Should we leave them to it?" Greg asked John after several minutes of silence had passed.

"Maybe, yeah," John said. "Where do you want to go?"

"The river might be a good idea. You have some, uh, stuff on your face."

John wiped his hand across his cheek and frowned. "Oh, yeah. Oops. Me and Greg are going to the river for a while," he told Molly and Sherlock. "We'll be back soon."

"Okay. Be careful, you two," Molly replied, looking up at them. Sherlock didn't even move. John shrugged, and left with Greg.

They chatted while they walked- about school, work, the Games, the differences between districts- and eventually, inevitably, Sherlock and Molly.

"You met Sherlock in training, right?" Greg asked as John splashed water onto his face.

"Yeah, on the first day," John said, scrubbing at the blood. "Okay, ow. I only met him in the arena three days ago, though."

"Really? That's when I found Molly."

"How did you two meet?"

"I accidentally stumbled across where she was staying, she didn't shoot me and we took things from there. How did you meet up with Sherlock?"

"… he accidentally stumbled across where I was staying, I didn't shoot him and we took things from there."

"Small world, huh?" Greg laughed. "So you know Molly from Twelve?"

"Yeah, we trained together. She's a really great girl," John said.

"I know," Greg said, with a little more venom than was required. John grasped what was going on.

"Oh, God. You don't seriously think…?"

"What?"

"It's not like that. She's like family to me, honestly. I could never- yeah. No."

"I know," Greg said, but he seemed to relax somewhat. "Sherlock's, um, a nice guy."

"No, he's not," John said. "He's a dick."

"Yeah, okay, he is," Greg chuckled. "I guess you can't choose who you…" he trailed off.

"What?"

"Never mind. How did he get the eleven?" Greg asked instead.

"He's clever. He works things out. When we met, he knew what district I'd come from, who I'd come with, who I lived with, what I trained as- the lot."

"Okay, that sounds terrifying."

"It kind of is," John admitted, wiping the last of the blood away. "He told the Gamemakers things he'd deduced about them, and presumably it freaked them out enough to realise he was serious. Trust him to get a score that good without ever picking up a weapon."

"I feel pretty mediocre now. I just shot," Greg said.

"Same. I was glad there are guns this year, because I can't aim with a bow and arrow to save my life."

"Me neither. Molly's great with them, though."

"She seemed good in training, yeah. Did you ally with anyone else before Molly?" John asked. Greg sat down by John, pulling off his shoes and dangling his feet in the water.

"Sally Donovan, from Eleven."

"I take it she…?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. Were you with anyone else?"

"Sarah from Four and Henry from Ten."

"Both of them…?"

"Yep. Henry was only fourteen."

"Shit. Do you miss them?"

"I guess so. To be totally honest, I don't think about them that much. I mean, I dream about them sometimes, but for now- I don't know."

"Same with Sally," Greg said. "I think I'm too busy surviving for it to have sunk in."

"Sounds familiar," John agreed. "Have you had to… have you killed anyone?"

"No, no one."

"Oh."

"You?"

"Um, yeah. Two," John said brusquely.

"How did you handle it?" John looked at Greg sharply, but he seemed genuinely curious.

"The first one… badly. Very badly. The second one, less so. Like you said, I'm not sure it's sunk in yet. It's funny," John began, not sure why he was saying it. "I said, after the first one, that I wouldn't kill anybody else. Even when Jupiter- the second one- was hitting me, I wasn't going to kill him. I thought 'no. I'm not going to do this'. I tried to run away, and when that didn't work I decided to just… let him."

"So what changed?"

"He attacked Sherlock."

"Ah."

"I didn't even have to think," John said, staring out across the forest. "It wasn't that I changed my mind, it's that there wasn't a decision to make."

"So are you two- you know?"

"What?" John asked.

"Together. Like, as a couple."

"What? No! No, we're not."

"Okay, okay, sorry I asked," Greg said, raising his hands.

"Sorry, but- no. Just no. He's not… _I'm _not… what even makes you think that I feel that way about him?"

Greg looked incredulous. "_Really?_"

"Yes, really. What?"

"For one, every time I've said something about Molly, you've answered with something very similar about him," Greg said. "And I don't mind telling you that I would want to be with her. If I could."

John was very quiet in response to that. "It's complicated," he eventually said.

"Isn't it always?"

"Even more complicated than usual."

"Knowing one or both of you will die in the next few days definitely takes the sweetness out of things," Greg said vehemently. "No, wait, I didn't mean it like that. It's not that- I don't blame the Capitol. I don't."

_Liar. _But John nodded along anyway. "No, I know what you mean. If things were different… if you could both live… would you tell her how you felt?"

"Yes," Greg answered straight away. "No question. How about you?"

"I don't know," John replied honestly. "Like I said…"

"Complicated?"

"Yeah."

"So you _do _like him," Greg said triumphantly.

"I-damn it, okay, yes. Not a word to Sherlock or Molly though, okay?"

"Sure thing."

"We sound like five year olds comparing crushes," John chuckled.

"Oh, God, don't say _crush_."

"Well, what _do_ you call it?"

"I don't know. It's not an easy thing to pin down, is it?"

"Not even slightly."

"I mean, she wasn't in my life- not properly- until three days ago," Greg said, plucking at the grass idly as he spoke. "Isn't that weird to think about? I can't imagine it now. I can't imagine that I lived for seventeen years not knowing there was a girl called Molly Hooper, who fed stray cats and had a pretty smile and long blonde hair."

"It was brown when we were younger," John offered. "She spends a lot of time outside. It goes darker in winter." Greg nodded, mentally cataloguing it. John wondered if he was picturing what it would look like; imagining long nights inside by the fire, a darker haired Molly curled up close to him. The knowledge of the reality that could never exist- the enormity of all the futures neither of them could ever have- pressed down on them both.

"It is mad, though," John said. "I mean, I'm telling you all this stuff, and I haven't even known you for an _hour_."

"I guess, in a situation like this, you make the most of what you can," Greg said. "Time's hardly something we've loads of."

"Maybe we shouldn't waste it," John said. "Maybe we should just go back, tell them how we feel and… yeah."

They both considered this for a moment.

"Nah," Greg said.

"Definitely not," John agreed.

"You know, this has been a very girly conversation," Greg said.

"And it's been broadcast to all of Panem."

"Shit," Greg said, face draining of colour.

"We'd better do something manly to make up for it."

"You got a weapon?"

"Yeah, a gun."

"Great. There are rabbits nearby- let's bring one home and have the women cook it."

John laughed. "Okay, if you say that around them, Sherlock _will _kill you."

"Only if Molly doesn't first."

* * *

><p>Ferris Limber, the boy from Seven, was the only person in the arena without an ally. He didn't know that, and he wouldn't much care if he did; he had far greater problems to worry about.<p>

Ferris had been so very grateful when he found water. He had been crawling, too weak to walk, when he came across the huge puddles. He didn't know where they had come from- he certainly hadn't heard any rain- but he hadn't stopped to question it. He was paying the price for that now.

Every cramp that tore across his stomach had Ferris doubling over further until he was completely tucked in on himself, a tightly curled ball of pain. Sobs wracked him as his stomach lurched yet again, but even as he cried his cheeks stayed dry. He was hidden in the undergrowth, had dragged himself to rest underneath a tall tree. He stared up at it, breath coming in slow, long heaves, as he tried to gather the energy to move.

He couldn't.

_I can't die yet, _he thought. _I_ _have to get back home for Ryan. He needs me. He's only eight, he can't even take tesserae yet. I promised I'd come back for him. I can't give up now. I'm_

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, in the Capitol, buildings were being locked. Footage from the Games was being interspersed with clips of people holding signs, holding banners, sobbing hysterically as they spoke to the cameras. After the most recent broadcast the Gamemakers were being advised not to go outside for their own safety. The desperate crowds outside- screaming, banging on the windows- meant they didn't dare disobey.<p>

* * *

><p>The boy from Seven died, alone, in pain.<p>

* * *

><p>It had been an hour since the riverside conversation was broadcast to Panem, and Thomas Lucan was paying the price. His personal phone line had been temporarily deactivated- somehow, the number had been leaked to the general public, and the influx of calls had been too much to keep up with.<p>

He swept out of his office, ignoring anybody that tried to speak to him until he reached the person he wanted. She was busy at work, but she shot up when he shut the door behind him.

"I didn't know-" Luci began the second she saw him.

"One hour," he cut her off. "That's all it's taken to reach this level. Imagine what it will be like in two, in four, in a day. Imagine what will happen when one of them dies."

"I didn't know!" she repeated desperately. "I never meant for-"

"Do you understand the gravity of this situation? The people outside are asking us to break the rules set down years ago," he said icily. "Seventy-four years ago. They're asking us to break that tradition."

"But why? Why do they all care so much? Any other year, they'd be cheering for them to die!"

"Love is stronger than hate- far stronger- and it's made these children into people. The viewers look at them and see living, breathing people, with relationships and stories, and that is your fault."

"Mine? How?"

"You told me this system would work. You told me you'd have the problem solved. You told me they'd be dead by now."

"I thought they would be! How was I supposed to guess that it would come down to this? I mean, the woman from One, maybe, but the others… the boy from Six alone! His odds were less than one hundred to one, he-"

"Shut up."

"I mean, nobody could have thought-"

"I said shut up!" he roared, and she flinched.

"I've had the President on the phone," he said, voice low again, "and he's not happy. We can't give into their demands, Luci."

"Then let's not! They'll forget soon- I mean, the boy from Seven died only minutes ago, and that hasn't-"

"He was never going to be the problem, and you know that. The people- in the districts, in the Capitol itself- are on the verge of rioting, but it's not over him."

"Just because the audience are interested in-"

"They're more than interested, they're obsessed. They're in love with the children in love."

"Those children aren't in love, they're desperate," Luci snapped. "They're teenagers, clinging onto anything they can. Take any of those pairs- Adler and Long, Holmes and Watson, any- out of the arena and they'd fall apart in days."

"Really? Because that's not what the boy from Six said."

"Okay, then what _do_ we do?"

"You tell me."

"What?"

"I'm waiting, Luci."

She swallowed hard. "We… we…." Her eyes lit up. "Oh. Oh, I know what we do."

Her voice overflowed with relief as the words tumbled out, and he had to agree it had merit. It had style. It was the only solution he could see that wouldn't upturn everything they had worked so hard for.

"Good work, Luci," he told her, standing up. "I'll inform the President of the decision right away."

"Thank you so much," she gushed. "I'll just get back to work and-"

"No," he cut her off. "No, I don't think so."

"What? But I-"

"I told you the President was involved," he said. "That tells you how serious this is. He wants to know who's responsible, and he wants something done about it. Naturally, blame falls to you."

"What? No! I- I fixed this, I can _fix _this-"

"No, Luci. That's not going to work out."

"Please, just give me one more chance. I- no!" She was on her feet, knocking over papers as she tried to scrabble away. "No, please, _please_ Thomas. I- I'm engaged, it's my wedding in two months, please just give me until-"

The bullet cut her off midsentence. Her face was almost comically shocked as she clutched at her chest and fell, still reaching out as if to stop him. He walked the few steps forwards to stand over her. Her hand grasped onto his trouser leg, grip feeble.

"Thomas… Thomas, please…" she was gurgling. He pulled away, disgusted. Lucan left, flicking off the light and locking the door behind him. The bitch was nothing more than a waste of bullets.

* * *

><p>"Okay, it's done," Molly said, pulling the rabbit out of the fire. "I burned the leg a bit, sorry."<p>

"I'll have it," Greg offered.

"No, don't be silly. I'll have it. I cooked it, after all."

"Exactly- you did the hard work, so you deserve the best bit."

"The hard work? You caught it!"

"Yeah, but it was John that shot it."

"And you seriously don't understand why I dislike being around people?" Sherlock demanded from John, who just chuckled to himself. They were sat a short distance away, watching the pair argue over who deserved what.

"They're being nice, Sherlock. That's what 'people' do."

"What a waste of time."

"How is it a waste of time?"

"There's a reason 'politeness' sounds a lot like 'pointless'," Sherlock snorted.

"Ahh, but there's politeness and there's kindness. They're being kind."

"The difference being…?"

"Kindness is genuine. It… makes you happy, I guess. It makes you happy to make the other person happy. You do it because you want to, not because you have to."

"So I was right. Politeness is ridiculous."

"Yeah, well we can all agree you're not polite."

"Abm I kind?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.

John caught the gaze, but then looked away. "You tell me," he said softly. "Look- last night-"

"No," Sherlock said immediately.

"No?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," John said, recovering. "Okay, sorry, that's fine. I understand if you want to take it all back."

"I don't," Sherlock said. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"I-"

"Don't," Sherlock said. He swallowed. "Please."

"Why not?" John asked. He didn't understand what was going on. He hadn't understood the night before- had had a vague idea of what he thought Sherlock was trying to suggest- but in the daylight it sounded ridiculous. He half wondered if he'd dreamed the entire damn thing.

'Forget the sponsors', Sherlock had said- but what if that was just another ploy? If they were still doing it all for the cameras, the conversation didn't fit. If it wasn't for the audience, then why had Sherlock started the whole damn charade in the first place? None of it made sense.

Knowing fully well that it was a bad idea, John very cautiously laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turned to look at it, and then his eyes flickered up to meet John's. They were filled with conflict and pain so _real_ that it made John flinch. _Can you act that well? Can you fake that much? _John didn't know- but he had to admit that if anybody could, it was Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock said softly, and then he pulled away. Standing up, he re-joined the others- and after a few seconds, so did John, smile firmly back in place. Molly and Greg had ended up splitting the burnt flesh equally between them, and were yanking the remaining meat off the bones and sorting it into four equal piles.

"You two okay?" Molly asked cheerily as she worked.

"Yeah, you?" John replied.

"Great, thanks. Do you know we're down to six now?"

"Yeah, I heard the cannon shot earlier. I wonder who it was."

"The boy from Seven," Sherlock said, and John wondered why it suddenly felt like being slapped when Sherlock even talked. _Would you get a grip already?_

"What makes you say that?" Molly asked.

"It's clearly none of the four of us, so that reduces it to the women from One and Seven or the boy from Seven. The women operate as a pair- we'd have heard two cannon shots had they been involved. Either the attacker would have killed both, or the first would have murdered whoever harmed the second."

"Couldn't one of them have died naturally?" Greg argued.

"It's possible, but unlikely. Those two are clever, very clever. All things considered, it'll be the boy from Seven."

"So you've met Irene?" Molly asked.

"You could say that," Sherlock said evenly.

Molly grinned and would have presumably asked further questions, but was cut off by a sudden blast of trumpets. The announcer's voice boomed down from overhead, congratulating the six of them that remained.

"There's been a rule change," the man was saying. Molly and Greg looked at each other, confused. The rules- few though they were- _never _changed. They were decades old: a tradition. They both looked to Sherlock, but he was shaking his head; he didn't know either.

"Due to the many popular alliances and an awe-inspiring amount of public support, two tributes can now be declared winners if they are allied together." The announcer paused, like he knew they wouldn't understand it. "Again- if both members of an alliance are the last two alive, they will both be declared winners."

John had to go over it several times before it sunk in. _Two people can live. Sherlock and I can both live. We can both live. _For once, Sherlock wasn't any quicker to understand, and when the full impact finally hit him he was by John's side in seconds. John turned to face him and then Sherlock had one hand on the side of his face, gripping him hard and pulling them together.

For a moment, there was nothing else in the universe but Sherlock's fingers pressed tight against his skull and the desperate crush of his lips against John's.

Molly and Greg vaguely registered the couple a few feet away, but they were finding it very hard to look away from each other. Ever since they had realised what they were being told, they had just sat there with silly smiles on their faces. Every now and again one would laugh slightly, embarrassed- but they were unable to stop beaming or look away from each other. Greg felt that he had probably ought to move- to do something- but there was no rush. _There will be time. We have that time._

Sherlock and John broke apart, but didn't move away. Sherlock leant forward so their foreheads were touching and John kissed him again, softer this time. The hand on the side of John's face ran a gentle thumb over his cheek.

* * *

><p>Several minutes away, Irene woke Kate up by shaking her gently by the shoulder.<p>

"Come on, wake up. I've got news."

"News?" Kate murmured, stirring. "Is it good?" Irene smiled, and moved her hand to play lightly with a lock of Kate's hair.

"The best."


	16. Chapter 16

**How has this reached 100 story alert lists? I… how? I love you all so much.**

**I had to do a lot of rejigging because the word length was either going to be ridiculously long or weirdly short (as it is, it's of the standard marathon length), so apologies if anything seems weird.**

* * *

><p>Of all the plans Sherlock had ever made for his future, not one had contained another person.<p>

Sherlock didn't like- _wasn't_ like- other people. He didn't want to make idle small talk or pay false compliments or listen to rants about what he perceived as petty problems. There wasn't one human being whose company he could stand for more than ten minutes. He couldn't imagine being 'with' anyone; he simply wasn't that kind of person.

And then John came along.

It was a phenomenon, something very new and not yet understood. The electricity that arced through his body whenever John touched him was stronger than ever. The image of the gun pressed to John's head was finally fading, being pushed out by quickly yet meticulously made recordings of _the feel of skin under fingers and eyelashes close enough to count and lips smiling under mine._

Yet it wasn't the intensity of feeling that stuck out to Sherlock; in fact, it was the opposite. It was how _natural _it felt at times. He hated the forced courtesy, and the carefully premeditated conversations designed to cater to the audience- but when that dropped away, it was something completely different.

It was that he could spend five, six hours in John's company and not mind. John seemed to improve the way he worked rather than hinder it; seemed to spark ideas within him. It was when he saw that John was cold or tired or upset, and they didn't seem like petty problems. The very fact that John wasn't happy got under Sherlock's skin, kept him from feeling comfortable in himself, drove him to do anything to fix things.

It was that it was easy to be around John. It wasn't that Sherlock forgot he was there; it was that he forgot there had been a time when he wasn't. It was definitely a curious thing, especially when Sherlock considered he hadn't even known John for two weeks. _Then again, I never was one for waiting around._

* * *

><p>After the kiss they had received the predictable parachute, and Sherlock had completely and totally ignored it. John, following his lead, did the same. The audience had taken it as a sign that they were too absorbed with each other to notice anything else, and kept sending them. Even after the third had landed, Sherlock carried on stubbornly pretending not to notice. John really hoped he wasn't reading too much into things, because what he thought that signified made him positively <em>glow<em>.

It was hard to wrap his head around how much one announcement had changed things. They might as well have picked his world up and turned everything in it upside down. There was so much to try and internalise. There was the possibility of Sherlock liking him, the suggestion of a future scaled in months and years rather than hours and days- and, above all, there was the freedom of getting to feel like an average seventeen year old; simply happy that the boy he wanted wanted him back.

(As for the parachutes, they had given up sending them after the fourth. Molly and Greg, having no subtext or pretence to try and deal with, had collected the food and blankets and wondered if being around Sherlock was going to turn John 'weird'.)

* * *

><p>"He didn't think you liked him, you know," Greg said. Sherlock glanced around, but John and Molly were still at the river collecting water. Greg was definitely addressing Sherlock, then. <em>Damn.<em>

"What?"

"John. He didn't think you felt the way you do."

"Which is?"

The question was meant to exasperate, but there was still a filament of truth in it. As natural as it felt to be around John, it was still altering Sherlock's brain, his body. He had never experienced anything like it. His pulse sped whenever he was near John, and anxiety began to flutter the second the other boy was out of sight. Even now, when he had only been gone minutes, Sherlock was- for lack of a better word- _pining. _He recoiled at the thought.

"Are you always this difficult?"

"I believe as much, yes."

"Fair enough," Greg said. "But Molly likes John, and he seems like a great guy."

"So…?"

"So, don't hurt him."

"Who said I was going to do that?"

"Nobody, but-"

"Is this some repulsive attempt at a 'heart-to-heart'? If so, I'd prefer it if you stabbed me. I really would."

"Whatever," Greg said, defeated. His face lit up as Molly came slipping through the trees, John following. He hastily made his way over.

"Save me," he muttered. She giggled.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"You managed not to kill him," John greeted Sherlock, as Molly steered Greg away. "I'm impressed."

"It was a very close thing," Sherlock murmured. He leant down and kissed John roughly on the corner of his mouth before he even realised what he was doing.

It was a silly thing- a very small thing- but on top of everything else, it threw him completely. It hadn't been premeditated. It hadn't been thought through, not at all. He had acted on impulse, on desire, and Sherlock didn't _do _that. He deduced, he manipulated, but he did most certainly not do things because his body/heart/_whatever_ urged him to.

"You okay?" John frowned as Sherlock's eyes glossed over.

"Fine," Sherlock said, from somewhere far away.

"No, you aren't. What's wrong?"

"I don't know what I'm doing." The words, which Sherlock had not intended to say, came out in a flurry. _What's happening to me?_

"Now or in general?"

"Both," he said honestly. "This… I don't know. I think- well, I _never _thought- eugh, words, words are hard." Sherlock brushed past John and walked a few steps away. John rolled his eyes and followed.

"Stop being such a drama queen. Sit," he ordered, and Sherlock obeyed. John settled down by him, uncomfortable and somewhat anxious.

"Is it-"

"No, it isn't about you, I don't regret it and I don't want to change anything. Don't be an idiot."

"Well, don't be a dick," John said, though he was unable to repress a small smile. "But this is about… us, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't worry yourself over it. This is unfamiliar territory, that's all," Sherlock said, trying to brush it off.

"Have you ever had any kind of girlfriend, boyfriend- a relationship- ever?" John asked. Greg and Molly, overhearing, suddenly became very engrossed with checking the supplies.

"Obviously not, no."

"Christ. Then of course you're confused," John said. "This kind of thing is never easy- and that's without taking into account where we are and what's going on."

"What's 'going on' is that this conversation is causing me physical pain."

John snorted. "You know, for somebody so excellent at reading people, you really are awful at interacting with them."

"You can be an expert in botany yet kill anything you try and grow."

"We're going to search for more numbers," Greg announced, too loudly and rather awkwardly. "In, um, a place that isn't here. We'll be back soon."

"Stunningly put," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "See you soon, guys. Take care."

The 'CLX' plant had grown berries- tiny blue things that nobody trusted. The number had faded as promised, and Sherlock had divided his time equally between being with John and probing at the ground agitatedly. His delight at understanding what the numbers signified had been short-lived. He wanted to know _how _the Gamemakers were doing it, the process by which fruit could instantaneously grow or shrivel or transform into something deadly.

Sherlock had advised them all to keep searching for other marks, and asked them to let him know if they found anything. Nobody but Sherlock really cared about the mechanics of the thing- they had worked out how to use it to help them stay alive. What else mattered? But Sherlock _did _care, and so whilst they all knew Molly and Greg were using it as an excuse to get away, it was still a sweet gesture.

John waved goodbye to them both then turned back to Sherlock, who still looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. _Sherlock Holmes: officially the only person in the world to find battles to the death easier to handle than relationships. _If John was a different person, he would take that personally.

"I can't believe it's been about two hours and you're already having an existential crisis."

Sherlock had to laugh at that. "Nobody ever said a relationship with me was going to be simple."

John's stomach flipped. "So that's what we're calling this? A relationship, I mean?"

"If you want," Sherlock shrugged. There were many, many things that concerned him about being with John, but 'labels' wasn't one of them.

"Yeah, okay," John said, working very hard to remain calm and collected.

"Are you entirely sure?" Sherlock asked. "I am not an easy person to be with."

"I don't give up easily."

"I don't really eat or sleep- sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

"I already told you, no."

"I-"

"Sherlock, you've overthinking this," John said, ignoring mental references to black kettles and pots. "I mean, you've dealt with knives and guns and dehydration, for God's sake. Surely you can cope with whatever_ this_ is," John said, waving his hand in Sherlock's general direction.

_He doesn't understand, _Sherlock thought with a vague pang of sadness. It was understandable; John was a normal person with a normal mind. Presumably he had met people before that he had liked and had liked him back, and they had started relationships that were good then less good then bad then over. He had been raised to expect this as normal; as an intrinsic part of his life. Sherlock hadn't.

Sherlock had thought he understood the basics of attraction, but it was like understanding what happens when you're caught in a fire. Knowing logically what was happening did nothing to prepare you for what it felt like. It didn't help.

Tangled up in the desire to get sponsors and to stay alive was the basic, ever growing desire to be near John, to be _with _John. He couldn't always peel things apart and work out which feeling or action belonged to which category. It was all so out of control, and beyond reason, and that scared him. Sherlock could imagine it, whatever 'it' was, blocking off his brainwaves and slowing down his thinking. John made him vulnerable. John made him human.

"We're holding it together, aren't we?" John continued when Sherlock didn't reply.

"You had nightmares last night," Sherlock answered quietly. "At least four separate ones."

"I woke you up?" John asked, knocked off guard.

"That's not the point."

"Right. Okay." It took John a few seconds to get back to what he was saying. "Well, if there's one thing I learned from Harry, there's a difference between being good and being okay. Us, we're doing okay. Maybe one day we'll even do good. For now, put up with the okay and… trust me, yeah?"

"Trust you?"

"Yeah. Trust me that it'll all work out in the end. That we can _make_ this work, even if it's all a bit chaotic and jumbled."

"You really are excruciatingly optimistic."

"Ahh, that's because you're so negative. I have to stick around to balance it out."

"You were going to leave," Sherlock stated in what he intended to be a casual manner. "Before Jupiter attacked. You had come back to tell me you were going."

"That's true," John said, knowing here was no point in hiding it. "And you can trust me that that's not going to happen. Not again. Okay?"

Another parachute dropped nearby and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John leant forwards and kissed Sherlock gently, who replied in a similar fashion.

"Crisis over?"

"Postponed."

"You're still a dick."

"And you're still an idiot."

"Glad that's settled." He kissed him again.

* * *

><p>"Let me know if you-"<p>

"- find anything," Molly finished. "Or if I need help, or if I get hurt. I know."

"Sorry," Greg apologised.

"No, I'm sorry, that was rude. This is just frustrating. It's too dark to see properly, even with the torch."

"At least Sherlock and John aren't in there with you."

"That… doesn't really bear thinking about."

"I wonder how long it will take them to notice we've gone."

"What do you mean? We told them."

"Yes, but I'm not sure that Sherlock registers when anyone other than John says anything."

"There's definitely an element of that. Have you seen the way they look at each other?"

"Why did you think I wanted to leave?"

"No! They're cute!"

"Seriously? I feel like I'm interrupting some deep moment every time I talk to one of them. I'm always half convinced they're about to start… you know."

"Who knows? If you hang around them long enough, maybe they'll let you watch."

"Surprisingly enough, I think I'd turn that one down."

"Shocking," Molly laughed. "Okay, there's nothing here. I'm going to go further in."

"I'm not sure that that's a good idea."

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Then stop worrying. I know what I'm doing."

"Sorry, sorry. I just don't want you to get hurt."

"You- ew!"

"What?"

"I touched something sticky. I don't know what it is, though. Eugh, that's gross."

"Moll, maybe you'd better come out."

"What happened to trusting me?"

"I do trust you, but I don't like the sound of things in there."

"It's only cave, Greg," Molly said crossly, her voice echoing off the walls. "Nothing bad's going to happen."

"All the same, maybe-"

"Shh!" The whisper hissed out of the rocky gap.

"Molly?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The- there! Again!"

"Okay, Molly, come out. Seriously, come out _now._"

"Okay, I'm coming now- I just wish I knew _what_-"

Every drop of water and blood in Greg's body turned to ice as a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the air.

"Molly? Molly!" he shouted, tearing at the stones with his hands. The gap was too small for him to fit through- that had been why Mollyhad gone through in the first place. He hadn't wanted her to and he shouldn't have let her, but she was annoyed at him for overprotecting her as it was and-

The scream came again, and every other thought but reaching her left his mind. Something unidentifiable yelped and then snarled, and he pressed his face to the gap. In the darkness of the cavern he could just about make out a huge, black shape throwing itself at her.

The gap was still too narrow, and he could see in and reach his arms through, but his shoulders wouldn't fit. He was stuck on the outside, helplessly watching the shadows and listening to Molly's screams and wails and the grunting and scratching and snapping of something he couldn't stop or even recognise.

He fumbled for a rock and pushed his arm back through, but moving was difficult. He threw the hunk of stone but it clattered uselessly to the floor. The shape turned, head snapping towards the noise, and then an unearthly howl filled the air.

Greg stumbled backwards as a figure, hunched and ungainly, began to lunge forwards. It was only when he made out the gleam of familiar eyes that it clicked that it was Molly and he reached in. He managed to close his arms around her and haul her out.

"What happened?" he shouted, cradling her against his chest and getting to his feet. He didn't know _why _he was shouting when she was in his arms, far too limp and far too still but with him all the same. He couldn't seem to stay calm. "Where's the thing gone?"

"I stabbed it," she said, her voice as quiet as his was loud. "With an arrow. I think I slowed it down a bit."

"Fuck," he breathed. He was trying to run with her, but he wasn't strong enough or tall enough: whilst Molly was light, he couldn't hold her properly. For once he didn't want to look at her, didn't want to see the extent of the damage. So he kept on lumbering and moving and never glancing down, and it wasn't long before she spoke.

"Greg…"

"Yeah?"

"Stop," she whimpered. Something was wrong; very wrong. He forced himself to look down and only just caught his heart before it jumped out of his throat.

There was blood. There was so much blood, all over her and all over him and he didn't even know where it was all coming from, let alone how to stop it. He hated himself for not realising sooner, for not thinking, for assuming that just because she was breathing she was okay. He hated himself for not having the common sense to at least _check_, but all he had wanted to do was get her away. To shield her from anything and everything he could and figure the rest out later.

"What happened?" he asked urgently, setting her down on the limp grass.

"There was a dog, or a hound, or a, a something," she said, and she was starting to hyperventilate.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," he told her. He saw now that her sleeves were destroyed. They had been torn away and had pushed into her skin, dissolving into a mangled mess of flesh and fabric and- in one place that made him feel dizzy to even glimpse at- bone.

"It-," she said, and now she was gasping for air, trembling from head to foot and he still didn't know how to stop the blood from coming out, where to even start. "It tried to bite me and I put my arms up to protect myself and I wouldn't put them down and it, it bit me and it scratched me and it bit me and it didn't let go, but then you called and distracted it and I managed to get an arrow and stab it and crawl out but-"

"It's okay," he told her again. "It's only your arms, yeah? Arms are nothing. It didn't get at your heart or your lungs or anything like that, so you'll be fine, okay? People get cuts on their arms all the time, it doesn't make any difference."

"Cuts like these?" she said, and Greg faltered because he still couldn't focus on her wounds for more than a few seconds at a time. It made it much easier to think it would all be okay when he didn't have to look.

"Sure," he said. "Sure, worse than that, way worse. We can treat them- that's what you are, a Healer, right? You know that we can treat them."

"No…" she said, but he shook his head.

"No, don't you 'no' me. We can fix this, it's easy. A tourniquet or something, right? I can do that. I know I can do that."

But he didn't even know what a tourniquet was, not really. He knew you had to have material so he started trying to tear at his shirt, but the material held fast. The arrows would have been ideal, but Molly had left both the quiver and the bow in the cave, along with the torch. He felt around for a sharp rock, a twig, anything, but there was nothing.

"Greg…" she said, but he wouldn't listen.

"No! No, there's something we can do- there _has _to be something we can do-" His eyes lit up with a kind of madness. "The sponsors! They can send something, they can send anything."

He lurched to his feet and tilted his head to the sky. "Help!" he shouted. "Help, please!" He looked around eagerly, expectantly, but nothing fell. "Help!" he shouted again. Nothing.

"No, no, no," he moaned, head in his hands, pacing, and all the while Molly still lay crumpled nearby- a sad scar on the landscape, blood turning the grass red. He turned around and screamed at the sky.

"Come ON!" he roared. "Come on, you fucking bastards!"

"Greg!" Molly begged. "Please, don't." She was crying.

"Hey, hey, it's okay!" he reassured her frantically, dropping back to her side. "Tell you what, I'll get John. You like John, and they're not far away- oh, we never should have left, Moll. I'm so fucking sorry and we never should have left, but I can get John. He'll know what to do."

"You wouldn't make it in time."

"You don't know that," he said.

"Yes, I _do_," she said. "Stop pretending."

"Moll…" he began, though he had no idea what he wanted to say. What could he do? He was nothing. He was useless, and he was nothing.

"Please- stop," she said, and he did. He stopped. He stopped moving, he stopped talking, he stopped thinking about what would be right for her or what was best or what he needed to do to make it okay. He just sat. He looked at her properly- saw the blood soaking her, saturating her, and he just sat.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly.

"Stay with me," she said, looking up at him with huge and imploring eyes.

"Like you could ever get rid of me." She laughed weakly. He sat down properly and pulled her head into his lap. She sobbed, a sudden hiccup, and then again.

His first impulse was to hush her, to tell her to quieten down, to beg her to stop crying. But before he could get the words out, a thought struck him: no. What gave him the right? What gave him and the Capitol the right to tell her how to spend her last few minutes? To force her to be quiet because her distress distressed them? Neither of them had that right to demand that of her; she didn't owe a thing to either of them.

Molly had spent her life holding things back, being strong for other people, repressing anything she felt wasn't appropriate or okay. As far as he knew (and, though nobody would ever tell him, he was correct), there had been one night in her entire life where she had actually told somebody that she didn't feel okay- and that had been curled up on the dirt, with the cold rain seeping in around them. It had been dipped in guilt and soaked in shame, and she had burned it from her memory and tried to do the same from his.

So, no. He wasn't asking anything of her, and he was determined that the Capitol wouldn't either. He wouldn't let them. Neither of them deserved a damned thing to make it easier on themselves.

Greg let Molly talk.

"I'm going to die," she said.

"Don't think about that," he advised gently, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

"H-how can I not? I don't want to, Greg," she said, and her words were being swallowed by her sobs and her whole body was shaking. "I don't want to die."

"I know," he said pointlessly, uselessly.

"I don't want to," she said again. "Not like this, not now."

"I know." Every word was a scalpel cutting at his heart, but he didn't tell her to stop saying them.

"I wanted more time. We were going to have more time, together. They promised us, Greg."

And he hated himself for saying "I know" yet again, but what else was there to say?

He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he didn't. Five days certainly wasn't enough time to fall in love. Molly was going to die, and the Capitol weren't just killing a seventeen year old: they were killing a twenty-one year old, a thirty-five year old, a sixty year old. Anything she might have been- anything any victim might have ever been- would be lost, nothing more than ghosts of memory and speculation.

So no, he didn't love her. Not yet. But he thought that, in time, he would have. Fuck, he would have.

"I'm gonna miss you," he said through tears. "Lots of people are."

"They won't. I'm nothing."

"No," he said.

"Yes. I'll be forgotten."

"No," he said, and it was the surest he'd been of anything all day. "No. Not once, not ever." He paused. "Not by me." She rolled her eyes to look at him and despite everything, they were still clear, still shining, still beautiful.

"Stay with me," she said again.

"I told you I would."

"Until the end?"

He swallowed hard. "Until the end."

She nodded, and the tears slowed a little for both of them. Her fingers moved blindly for his, and he closed both hands around one of her slim, pale ones.

She didn't talk much after that. Her breathing grew slower and began to rattle in her chest. She let out gurgles or moans, noises she didn't mean to make, but he didn't think that she heard any of them.

Her eyes had closed, and just when he thought it was all over, she opened them again with obvious effort. She looked at him and he looked at her, and he cradled her head in his hands and bent down to kiss her softly. She weakly kissed him back. She didn't have the energy to move her arms, but she kissed him back. He stayed close to her, one hand covering hers, the other brushing her hair loosely away from her face. _The sun bleaches it. It goes darker in the winter._

He didn't realise, at first, when she was gone. There was no clear instant of passing, no feeling that something had left. It wasn't a clean-cut transition but a slow gradient- fully here to not really here to not here at all. He knew she was breathing and then, later, he knew that she wasn't. He closed her eyelids with his fingertips.

Greg didn't lie down next to the body, or kiss her again, or do anything that melodramatic. But for a short while, he stayed where he was. He kept her head in his lap and her hand in his, and the setting sun lit them like an exhibition; the sum of two nothings that had somehow made something.


	17. Chapter 17

If you had asked Molly Hooper after her Reaping who she thought would care when she died, she would have given you the following list:

1. Her mother

2. Her father

3. John. Possibly.

If you asked her again in the arena, after enough time had gone by that she was starting to hope, she would have tentatively added a fourth:

4. Greg. For a little while.

The Gamemakers, after declaring the rule change, had decided that it no longer made any sense to downplay the romance. They had instead swung it the other way- there were contests, debates, merchandise, people divided into factions over which couple was better, all based in the Capitol and broadcast in dull moments. The government were making millions off it.

The majority of these people didn't give a shit about Molly as a person, but as a figure of a romance they wished they could be in, or as something to make the Games more interesting, or as somebody to bet on, they loved her. All the same, on an actual list of people who cared about Molly's death, they would not feature.

Even without them, the list would be far too long to write out in full. Here is a segment; the first fifteen of many:

1. Her mother, who shut the curtains and shut the doors and sat in Molly's room, on Molly's bed, lying down on her threadbare sheets and inhaling the scent of her daughter before it faded for good.

2. Her father, who took out the cut of meat he had paid a lot of money for, cooked it without really knowing why and went and sat on the doorstep. It took them a while to arrive, but once the stray cats realised what he was doing, they swarmed from miles to eat the turkey straight from his hand.

3. John. Definitely.

4. Sherlock, though he didn't know it at the time.

5. Irene.

6. Kate, though only as 'that pretty girl who was always nice to everyone'.

7. Glamor, not that he would ever show it.

8. An old man from the market in District 12 who had considered seeing Molly the highlight of his day. In a place so dark and dull, sometimes you needed somebody that bright.

9. Mabel Lestrade, who would have been more than proud to call a girl like that her family.

10. A lonely woman in District Nine who had always wanted a daughter like that and felt the loss like it was her own.

11. A seven year old boy named David from District Five, who had fallen in love with her the second he saw her smile.

12. Her teacher from her first year at school.

13. Her teacher from her second year at school.

14. Her teacher from her third year at school.

15. Greg. Always.

* * *

><p><em>The thing is<em>, Greg thought, _that everybody dies and everybody gets mourned._

No matter who you were, those two things were true. But another fact was that twenty-three children died in the arena every year, and nobody really cared. Their families, sure, but overall? The world moved on. The deaths were forgotten. They were an unfortunate side-effect; collateral damage.

_I'm as guilty as everybody else, _he thought- a thought with no emotion attached- as he sat plucking at the grass underneath him. _Every year, I watch people die- people I know- and I don't do a damn thing. _

Year in, year out, and he had never done a damn thing. Why not? Because it was easier. It was safer, always safer, to say nothing. Why was it only now that he was seeing how wrong that was? Why hadn't he realised sooner?

_It shouldn't have taken that. It shouldn't have taken her._

Molly was dead, gone, not coming back. And though it pained him to admit it, she was right: people would forget her. Others would die and maybe he would die and only two would live. But then the next year, more would die, and everybody would keep turning their heads and tutting about how sad it was and then forgetting. No matter how sad it was, it was just how things were.

_That's how it has to be, isn't it?_

"No," he said, softly, without even realising the words were slipping out. "No. No more."

* * *

><p>The Gamemakers had thought it safe to broadcast the boy from Six; had thought Panem would appreciate an end to the story. After all, with Molly gone, Greg was good as dead to them. What was he now? A tragic figure? Dull. Nobody wanted to insert themselves into a cursed romance; nobody cared about an unpaired boy wandering the arena. He was out of public interest.<p>

They cut the broadcast on the word 'more'- switched it to a screen with sponsorship information- but it was too late. The four Gamemakers in charge of censoring sat in place for a long time, looking at their screens in a terrified silence. 'No more'? What did 'no more' mean? More importantly, what would the _audience _think it meant?

"That was only four words," somebody eventually said unsurely. "We only let four words slip through."

They had done well so far. They had managed to strip out most of the dull but potentially dangerous conversations about life in the districts; had cut the nauseating section where the dead girl talked about dying cats; had managed to include just enough of the woman from One to keep things risqué but not too inflammatory.

They had stepped in when asked, twisted the footage, ran damage control. They had stopped the children from being people; turned them back into exports, runners to be bet on. They had done a good job.

"I'm sure you're right," somebody replied. "I've worked here fourteen years, and I've never slipped up before. I'm sure Lucan will understand."

All four nodded, but all four would be dead within nineteen minutes.

* * *

><p>"Nothing," Sherlock said, sitting down by John's side. "I mean, I have theories, but nothing conclusive as of yet." He held the canister up to the light and frowned at it. He had been trying to examine the pills, but with John still insisting he didn't open the bottle, it was difficult.<p>

"You'll work it out, I'm sure," John said. A few minutes of silence passed.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock eventually asked.

"Yeah."

"… are you good?"

"Not even a little bit," he replied quietly.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He set his hand on John's shoulder awkwardly.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't that how you comfort people?"

"Not… not really. But I appreciate the effort."

"So can I…?"

"Yep."

Sherlock withdrew his hand gratefully.

"How's Lestrade coping?"

"Greg? I don't know. I shouldn't think he'll stay with us much longer, though."

It had been awful. They had been sat together, Sherlock re-examining the berry-dotted plant for the five hundredth time, when they had heard the cannon shot blast out. There had been nothing to do but wait.

"Who is it?" John had asked Sherlock after several minutes passed, with nobody coming back to confirm or deny anything.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Sherlock checked. John nodded.

"Please."

"I think that it's probably Molly," Sherlock had said, watching John carefully. He had nodded tiredly.

"Do you want to know why?"

"No." John had leant his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock had fastened an arm around his waist as they waited in silence.

And when they saw Greg walking towards them, blood coating his hands and chest, they hadn't needed to ask anything. There was nobody by his side.

He hadn't spoken to them then or since. He was sat by the fire, staring into it like he was trying to read something in the flickering embers. John was fiddling with the cloth binding his fingers, and Sherlock sat and watched him sadly. _I do not know how to make this better._

"Thinking about home?" Sherlock asked.

If John was surprised, he didn't show it. His fingers paused against the dirtied cloth. "Yeah. Well, about Harry."

Sherlock nodded; he had known that. "What about her?"

"She was all I thought about on the way here. I've hardly thought about her since."

"And that makes you feel… bad?"

"Good guess," John said, flashing a quick smile at Sherlock. "I don't… why haven't I thought of her? It's like I almost forgot her. I don't know how she's doing, don't know if anyone's looking after her- it hasn't even crossed my mind. I feel so damn selfish."

Sherlock drew back to stare at John. "What?" John said defensively.

"_Selfish?"_

"Well, yeah."

"So far, you've allied with a girl to try and help injured people, taken care of a very frightened fourteen year old boy, risked your life trying to rescue them both, nearly died because you didn't want to hurt somebody, and then nearly died because you didn't want somebody to hurt me- and you call that _selfish?_"

"Are we leaving out the part where I killed two people?"

"In _self-defence. _And me-defence, which I'm also alright with. What have you got to feel guilty about?"

"How long do we have?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now who's being melodramatic?"

"Okay, maybe a little," John conceded. "It's just… Molly was important. That's all."

"Of course she was," Sherlock said, and when John looked at him he saw that he wasn't joking. John leant back into Sherlock, who pulled him close.

"Somebody needs to talk to Greg," John said. Sherlock pulled a face, then realised John couldn't see.

"Really?"

"Really."

"What if he doesn't want to talk?"

"Then- oh, no. No, no, not now." John said angrily, pushing away from Sherlock and standing. Irene and Kate stood in front of them, observing.

"So it was Molly?" Irene said, and she sounded much younger than usual. A child, easily hurt, losing something that mattered.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"What do you two want?" John asked. "We're not really in the mood for visitors right now."

"Oh calm down, boy toy," Kate said. "We're not going to hurt anybody."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said. "It's still advisable that you leave."

"Are you saying we shouldn't be here?"

"We're saying you _can't_ be here," Sherlock said.

"There's no such word as 'can't'."

"That's a ridiculous notion. Of course there is."

"It's not supposed to be taken seriously."

"It's still wrong."

"As much as I would love to debate grammar with you-"

"Why are you here?" John asked. "Why do you think this is a good idea? Arriving and flirting and threatening and stealing? Do you seriously think we need that right now?"

"These are Hunger Games, John. Were you expecting a happy ending?"

"For fuck's sake- no, of course not. _That's _why I want you gone."

"I'm going to need some elaboration."

"Three of us are going to die," John said flatly.

"Everybody dies."

"You know what I mean, Irene. Three of us are going to die_ soon_- we're supposed to be killing each other, for God's sake."

"You can fetch your gun any time you want."

"That isn't funny, and that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Kate said, breaking in. "We won't stay long. We only- Irene wanted to check. About Molly. That was all. We're going."

"And then what?" Greg said suddenly, making them all jump slightly. They all turned their heads towards the fire, but he hadn't moved. "We hope you die?" he continued, not looking at them. "That you fall into a trap or run out of food or something?"

"Do you have a better solution?" Kate demanded.

The fact was that the five of them knew each other now. Some of them even _liked _each other. And yes, two could live, but that wasn't enough. John couldn't live with himself if he killed Greg, somebody that he considered a friend. Equally, Irene wouldn't be able to sleep at night if she killed Sherlock, one of the few people she had met who could match her. They were in an arena with people they liked and being told to pick one to live, pick three to die.

If they fought and killed and won- any of them- they could never really be happy. Whoever it was, whichever pair won, would find that being with each other brought back memories of the arena; of violence, death, killing. Pleasure would bind with guilt and shame, and John's mouth telling Sherlock he loved him would become Irene's lips dripping dark red blood. In the end, they had even taken that.

The tense atmosphere was interrupted by a single silver parachute, floating leisurely down. They all looked at each other unsurely, and Greg approached it. Pulling the material apart, he let out a bitter, humourless laugh.

"Look," he said, and he held up a handful of colour. They crowded around and saw that they were flowers- what looked like hundreds of them. Bouquets and bouquets of flowers- roses, tulips, carnations, all in shades of love-heart red and pink.

At the bottom, a white piece of paper was provided with a single word printed on it in computerised calligraphy: 'Greg'.

"That's a nice gesture," Kate tried.

"It's not," Greg said. "It's pointless."

"What do you mean?"

"It's for effect," Sherlock said. "Nothing more. It has no practical purpose and it will be of no help to him. Or to any of us."

"But you don't need any more supplies," Kate said. "They're not really practical, but isn't it just a way to show that they're sorry about Molly?"

"It's addressed individually to me," Greg said. "I'm not the only one that knew her and cared about her, but I'm the only one who gets anything- and even then, it's useless. If they wanted to make everyone who knew Molly feel better they'd have sent us all something, something we could use. This is… this is almost an _apology. _They've given up on me as a contender."

"'So long, bad luck, and thanks for playing,'" Sherlock agreed.

"Where do you think these were sent from?" Kate asked.

"The Capitol," Sherlock confirmed after glancing it over.

"Figures," John said. "What do you think, Greg?"

"I think," he said slowly, "that Sally died. She died because she ate poison, because she was so hungry. I nearly did the same even though I knew what they were. Moll and I used to get gifts, but nobody ever gave a shit about me and Sally. I think that's interesting- don't you?"

Sherlock thought back to when he had been crawling through the forest, dying of dehydration, and nothing had come. He compared it to the four separate parachutes he received purely for kissing John. It didn't feel like he was in control anymore; didn't feel like he had ever been. The desire to win the game was starting to be overtaken by something else- a kind of nausea, an anger at the Gamemakers and at the injustice of the whole thing.

"So what do we do?" Irene asked after a while.

"I think," Greg said, "that we do this."

And he pulled out the match box he had taken from their supplies, and they all watched in silence as he tried to strike one. It didn't light. He was too angry, fumbling with the small stick, hands shaking.

"Here," Sherlock said. He took the box from Greg and lit a match with ease. Looking briefly at everybody else and receiving only confirming glances, he dropped the lit match onto the flowers. They twisted and crinkled and turned a disgusting putrid black, smoke billowing away.

"Go on, then," Sherlock said, looking at Greg as the flowers burned. "I know what you want to say."

"I'm not killing anybody else," Greg said straight away. "I'm not. You can attack me if you want, but I'm not hurting any of you."

There were a few seconds in which everybody but Sherlock was stunned silent.

"I'm with him," Kate said eventually, but unwaveringly. "Irene?"

"Wherever you go, I follow," Irene teased, taking Kate's hand in hers.

"I'm in," John said. Sherlock looked at him.

"You do understand the ramifications of this?" he said. "To your home? To your family?" He emphasised 'family', and John's eyes dropped to the rag around his fingers. Sherlock leant closer and lowered his voice. "This is a noble thing, John, but you stand to lose a lot. Are you sure?"

John considered this for a few seconds, before his jaw set firm.

"I think Harry would probably kill me herself if I said no," he said. Sherlock nodded; he had known this would be the reply, but it didn't feel right not to check.

"This is going to cause utter mayhem," Irene said, sounding very pleased all of a sudden. "The final five people in the Hunger Games, all refusing to fight. My, oh my."

"We don't know it's five," Greg said, looking at Sherlock. "How do you feel about it?"

It was almost certainly out of place and wrong, but Sherlock felt _lucky_. He felt excited. He had gone from playing simple games with the Gamemakers- telling them all that he'd worked out- to more complex games, like tricking them into believing a romance. But he'd fallen for his own damn trick and they'd found a way to use it against him- urging him on to kill others, to do their bidding, because it meant he could keep John safe.

This was the only way left to win the game, and Sherlock never played to lose.

"Have some sense," he said bluntly. "I would have done this weeks ago had I thought you idiots would agree." He felt John's hand close around his and a rush of affection filled him.

"Not good?" he asked out the corner of his mouth.

"Good," John countered, kissing him on the cheek. "More than good."

"So now what?" Irene asked.

"Now," Greg said, smiling, "I think we have some mayhem to cause."

* * *

><p>The people in the Capitol and the districts watched a pair of hands open the parachute to reveal bundle after bundle of beautiful flowers.<p>

"That's a nice gesture," the woman from Seven said.

Nothing more from the arena aired after that.

* * *

><p>An hour passed. Then another, and another, and soon it was growing dark and still nothing had happened.<p>

They spent the time sat around the fire, talking about life in the districts- but openly now, with nothing left outo r censored. They talked about the death. About the famine, about the disease, about the beatings. Irene had a much better lifestyle than John or Sherlock, without a doubt, but it still wasn't a happy one.

"Your career choice," Sherlock said, and Irene gave him a look which was more 'oh, go on then' than anything else. "It doesn't bother you."

"No. I don't see why it should."

"It's hardly a profession many people aspire to enter."

"I didn't _aspire; _I just realised that it was the most logical option. The majority of work in One is factory-based, and it pays a pittance. One day, a fairly drunk man offered me a lot of money to do things I shouldn't really talk about on camera. I turned him down, of course- but it got me thinking."

"But it's not… uh, sex?" John clarified. He was still reeling a little from the initial revelation, even though it had been hours ago. Kate's initial jealousy had worn off, though she was sat a great deal closer to Irene than was strictly necessary. Greg hadn't really seemed to take it in.

"No," Sherlock answered for her.

"Not usually," Irene added.

"But it pays well?" John asked.

"Yes, though the money's not the only reason I do it."

"It's control," Sherlock cut in, before John could ask.

"I am actually here, you know," Irene said, but she didn't sound angry. "Correct, as ever."

"It puts you in a position of power," Sherlock said to her. "Something I imagine you're in rather short supply of."

"Aren't we all? The entirety of Panem? How many of us can genuinely say _we_ hold the power in our lives?"

Nobody answered.

"You okay?" John asked Greg, who had remained relatively quiet. He nodded.

"I don't like this," Greg said. "I don't trust it. Why haven't they done anything yet?"

"Any ideas, Sherlock?" John asked.

"I don't know. But I should imagine that what you said wasn't aired," Sherlock said.

"Do you think they're airing this now?"

"Probably not."

"Good," Irene said, turning up Kate's face suddenly and kissing her hard on the lips. "I'm not sure your brother could have coped with seeing that."

John laughed. "I'm sure he'd be happy for her."

"How revoltingly sentimental," Irene said. Kate hit her affectionately.

"That's sweet, John, thank you. You have a sister, right?"

"Yeah, Harry. You know, you two kind of remind me of her and her old girlfriend Clara."

"How so?"

"I don't know. You look… happy," he said, suddenly awkward. "Like you belong together."

"We _are_ both stunning paragons of human beings," Irene said.

"Oh, would you stop it? Sherlock making me feel stupid is bad enough; I can't cope with both of you at once," John groaned.

"Luckily for you, you don't have to. I'm going to go to bed now," Irene said. "And I don't mean in the fun way."

"I'll take the first guard shift," Kate offered.

"No, I'd rather," Greg said. A familiar light lit up the sky, and the anthem began to play. Kate found Greg's hand and squeezed it reassuringly as Molly's face, smiling as ever, flashed up. They all waited in quietness until it faded away, and the air was silent and still once more.

"Are you sure?" John asked gently. "You'd do well to try and get some sleep."

"Yeah. I'm not really tired."

"I'll take the shift afterwards," Kate said," and I'll knock you out myself if you don't wake me up for it. John's right, you need to sleep."

"Are you sure you're alright alone?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm fine," Greg said. "I just… want some time by myself. That's all."

"Fair enough," John said. "Wake me up if you need anything, okay? Even if you just get bored and want someone to talk to."

"Thanks," Greg said sincerely. Irene smiled at him sympathetically, and her and Kate wandered off.

"C'mon, you," John said. "Time to sleep."

"I slept last night!" Sherlock protested.

"Oh, God, please don't let this be the eating argument all over again."

"I've told you, my mind is too well-maintained to require such menial things as-"

"You _can _talk like a normal person, you know. Irene's not even around."

"I'm not a 'normal person', therefore I don't-"

"Humour me."

"Fine," Sherlock relented, sulking, and let himself be led away. They were using the space under the tangled canopy of branches as a supply store, so they lay down nearby instead. _Forty-eight hours ago, I slept here for the first time, _John marvelled. _I had only just found out what Sherlock was trying to do. There was a storm. Molly was still alive. _How the hell had everything changed so quickly?

Around ten minutes passed, in which time they both lay on their backs and looked up at the sky.

"We're not going to get to sleep easily, are we?" John eventually said.

"I don't think so," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock?" John said. "Do you think… it's not going to be that simple, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean refusing to fight. We're not going to be let out of this. It's… it's not going to end well."

"No," Sherlock said. "I don't see how it could."

"Sherlock, we're actually taking on the _Capitol_ ," John said, laughing at how surreal it sounded. "We're scared and insignificant, and we're challenging the Capitol_. _I'm not going to hurt anyone- I'm just _not_- but it's… people have been hurt. More people are going to get hurt, because of us. I don't know how to cope with the thought of that."

"You need to distract yourself," Sherlock ordered gently. "Talk about something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, anything." Sherlock looked around for inspiration. "The stars."

"Sherlock, you hate the stars. You didn't even know the Earth went around the Sun."

"Let's not bring that up again."

"Then why would you want to talk about the sky?"

"It's something to talk about, isn't it? Most other things are either about the arena or your district, and neither of those things are going to distract you sufficiently. The sky seems fairly neutral territory. So, stars."

"If you think I know a lot about science, you're very misled."

"Trust me, I am very aware that you know nothing about science."

"Not _nothing_."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"I'm waiting, oh scientific one."

"Dick." John kicked Sherlock good-humouredly. "Okay, okay, I've got something. This teacher I had told me once that some of the stuff that makes us up can't be found naturally."

"'Stuff'?"

"Fine, okay, elements. The elements require such high heat and such high pressure to be created that the only way they can be made is when a star dies."

"And?"

"And nothing. I just thought it was cool. There you go, lesson over."

"Oh, John, you do contradict yourself."

"What? How?"

"A moment ago you called us 'insignificant'. Can't you see how wrong that is? You're genuinely telling me that things that came from the stars themselves are too small to make a difference?" Sherlock demanded. "You're missing the point. Yes, we have hearts that stop and bones that break, but we're more than that."

"Like what?" John asked, like a child hoping a story had a happy ending.

"You said it yourself- we're stardust."

Sherlock reached across and took John's hand, their fingers clasped together. Sherlock raised his arm and held their hands up to the sky, entwined together. They lay there for a few moments, taking in the thousands of tiny white dots sparkling between their fingers, around their hands, surrounding them and reassuring them. A part of them.

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to the back of John's hand, then let go. "Try and get some sleep," he said. He moved so he was again lying against John's back, arms around him. The other boy yawned, pressed himself closer, and let his eyes close.

"Sherlock?" he murmured a few seconds later.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

"I think you'll find that stars don't require sleep," Sherlock said, and he smiled at the mutter of 'dick' he received in reply. There was a small comfort to be had in some things remaining the same.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N- I'm going on holiday on Saturday, so there won't be another update until Monday 6th August. Sorry! But it'll update every Monday after that until this story has finished- plus, there'll be a new chapter of 'I'll Have That Drink Now' this Friday.**

**I'm still guessing at around twenty-two chapters total, so please don't go anywhere! **

**I love you all and feel seriously blessed to have such kind and amazing readers.  
>J x<strong>

* * *

><p>"Something beginning with… r."<p>

"Rock."

"Correct."

"You did 'rock' _last _time!"

"The landscape is not as diverse as we would prefer," Irene said dryly. "Your turn."

"No," Sherlock said bluntly, before Kate could reply. "We are not playing this ludicrous game any longer."

It was early in the morning of day nine in the arena, and they had decided to move. Everybody was still saddened, sombre, but they acknowledged that sitting around doing nothing was a waste of time. They hadn't been able to sleep, and so Sherlock had eventually convinced them to try and track down more numbers. They carried armfuls of supplies and, much to Sherlock's intense dislike, talked as they moved.

"You're not even playing," Greg pointed out.

"I don't understand the purpose."

"Don't they have 'I Spy' back in Eight?" John asked, amused.

"They do, but they have a lot of things back in Eight. Very few are good."

"Spoilsport," Irene grumbled. "I would have thought you would enjoy a game based solely on observation."

Sherlock snorted. "_Observation. _Everybody chooses such painfully obviousthings. Rock. Bush. _River._"

"Why don't you pick, then?" Kate said.

"Yeah, go on," Greg urged. "I'm pretty sure it's your turn."

About an hour and a half later, it was unanimously agreed that Sherlock was no longer allowed to play I Spy.

* * *

><p>"Citizens of Panem," the man on the television announced. "Thank you for your patience. I know this has been different to what you're used to, but hasn't it been fabulous?"<p>

An approving roar answered from every inch of the Capitol.

"I want to apologise for any distress the communication errors may have caused. We don't know why our cameras have been malfunctioning, but rest assured that we're fixing them.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the selection of interviews, recaps, flashbacks, predictions, information and competitions we'll be showing. Do, however, note that sponsorship is temporarily frozen.

Well, I better be off. We have a very exciting special guest waiting out back- would you be interested in hearing from Ferris Limber's younger brother?"

The man stopped and grinned, as though he could hear the answering calls and whoops throughout the city.

"We're approaching the end of a very exciting year and I hope that you'll remain as loyal and devoted as you've always been. I am proud to call myself the President of this beautiful place."

And the crowds of the Capitol stamped and cheered and roared, and the frightened eight year old boy waiting out back quivered and tried his hardest not to cry, and the woman escorting him led him onto to the stage, manicured fingernails biting into his shoulder with every step.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" Greg said. Sherlock looked up from the leaves he had been examining as they walked, and let them flutter from his hand. His eyes grew wide.<p>

"Oh, _yes,_" he said, pushing past everybody else. Kate rolled her eyes at John, who stifled a laugh. They had reached the mouth of the river after several hours walking, and the rocks surrounding it were piled high. One particular one- quite large, near the top- had a huge 'CC' carved into it.

"They didn't do a very good job of hiding that," Greg commented. "How long have we got until two hundred hours?"

"The berry plant yesterday morning was one hundred and sixty," John reeled off.

"So we're at around one seventy-eight?"

"That makes it just under a day till it goes off," Kate said. "Fun stuff."

"Sherlock- Sherlock, get _down,_" John hissed, darting forwards to grab Sherlock's collar as he tried to scramble up the pile of rocks. "We have not come this far for you to break your bloody neck."

"I don't know how you expect me to work anything out if you don't let me investigate it," Sherlock objected angrily. Several stones cascaded nearby, as if to prove John's point. With an air of utter disdain, Sherlock clambered down.

"I take it we're staying here, then?" Irene said, dumping her armful of supplies onto the ground. "I can't see any way that he's going to be torn away from _that_."

"It's as good a place as any," John agreed. "Near a water source, fair amount of rocks we can use for shelter- how about food?"

"Very good question," Sherlock said, desire to sulk apparently overcome by desire to show off. "Look."

"At what?"

"The droppings," he said, pointing at the small piles by the river.

"So we know there are rabbits nearby?"

"More than that. Look closer."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." Sherlock sighed impatiently, but continued anyway.

"There are many of them, but they've all dried slightly in the sun- I'd say they're twelve hours old, at least."

"So nothing's been here for a while?"

"Exactly. This area was clearly popular with wildlife, but nothing's visited it in at least twelve hours."

"Twelve hours ago being when we decided to take on the nation," John said grimly.

"Shit," Greg said.

"Guys?" Kate called. They found her sitting sadly by a twitching heap of fur, stroking it gently with the tips of her fingers. They watched as the rabbit stiffened and twitched, jerking desperately. Irene saw Kate try and wipe away a tear without anybody noticing, and silently took her hand.

"It's been drugged," Sherlock said after a minute or so. "The pupils."

"Dilated," Irene agreed.

"It's the same poison they used on Sally," Greg said. "I'm pretty sure it is, at least. But a dose that would kill a human… how could it be the same time scale for something like a rabbit? Would they even be affected in the same way?"

"This poison has to be either a modified variation of a naturally occurring toxin, or completely manmade. They can make it do whatever they want."

"This toxin being introduced- do you think that was a set event?" Irene asked.

"No way of telling," Greg shrugged. "Carving will have faded."

"If it _was _an event, what did it affect?" John asked. "How did the rabbits get it?"

"Sally got it from the berries," Greg said, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, I've seen those. Huge, orange, hanging off the ground. No way a rabbit could reach them."

"So what _is _it from?" Kate said uncertainly. She looked at Sherlock, but he didn't seem to have an answer.

"Don't eat anything you find growing or living here," he said instead. "Stick to the supplies we have."

"We'll run out soon," Irene warned. "We've still got a fair amount, but it can't last forever."

"Nothing can," John said. "Better that than risk being poisoned."

"So what now?" Greg asked.

"We explore," Sherlock said, huge smile growing on his face. Laughing, John slid a hand around Sherlock's neck and pulled him forwards, kissing him gently. Kate and Irene shared a look of 'God, not this again'. Greg turned quite pointedly away.

"What was that for?" Sherlock asked, bemused, when they eventually broke apart.

"It's nice to see you happy," John shrugged, unable to avoid smiling.

"You two are repulsive," Irene said.

"Like you and Kate are any better."

"Myself and Katelyn-"

"Okay, no. I object. 'Katelyn' is what Perry calls me to piss me off."

"Really? I must make a mental note to use it more often."

"You sound like my sister when people call her 'Harriet'," John laughed.

"People find names being shortened annoying?" Sherlock interrupted. "Interesting."

"It'll take you a pretty long time to find a good abbreviation of 'Mycroft'."

"I have the time," Sherlock said, a smile playing around his lips.

"Why don't you like your brother?" Kate asked. Sherlock made a dismissive noise.

"Why should I?"

"He's your family," John said.

"And? Just because we shared the same parents doesn't mean we're at all alike."

"I don't know if I'm like Perry or not," Kate commented. "Maybe. I hope so."

"Look at you, getting all sentimental," Irene teased.

"He'll get lynched by his friends for that," Greg added in.

Kate grinned. "Ah, he'll live."

"I certainly hope I'm not like _my _family," Irene said. The mood dipped a little.

"You're not," Kate said immediately.

"You don't even know them."

"I know enough. You're not evil, Irene."

"You don't know that."

"I-"

"That's enough of that," Sherlock said firmly. "Irene Adler, you are irritating, bothersome, grating, rude, selfish, inconsiderate, dangerous- but you are not evil. And I can assure you, I _do _know. I know everything."

"… I am not irritating."

"You are a little," Kate said. Irene smacked her lightly.

"Who are you siding with?"

"The pretty one. You can decide for yourselves who that is."

* * *

><p>It was a few hours later that Sherlock finally came across the small, innocent looking flower, a beautiful pale pink. He twisted it this way and that underneath his fingers, admiring the delicacy of the carving underneath it.<p>

"Found another?" John asked. The others, noticing, gathered around.

"'CLXXXV'," he read out loud. Kate pulled a face.

"Hardly rolls off the tongue, does it?"

"So that's…"

"One hundred and eighty-five," Kate said triumphantly, a split-second before Sherlock. He scowled.

"I almost had it that time," John sighed. "What time are we on now?"

"One hundred and eighty?" Greg said. "Or maybe one-eighty-one. Either way, it's pretty close."

"I take it you'll be staying here?" John said to Sherlock, who was inches away from the petals.

"Did you ask something?" Sherlock said after a few moments. Irene sniggered.

"We'll keep on looking," she said, slinging an arm around Kate's waist.

"Take me with you," Greg half-begged.

"John?" Irene asked, but John shook his head.

"I'll keep him company."

"I don't think he's even on the same plane as the rest of us right now."

"All the same."

Irene shrugged. "Please yourself. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"I wouldn't respond to that, if I were you," Kate cut in, and dragged Irene away before conversation could turn to how heinous something would have to be for Irene to reject it. Greg followed, shaking his head.

"I think that me and Kate are mainly here to look after you and Irene," John commented, watching them leave.

"'Kate and I,'" Sherlock corrected off-handedly. He dragged his eyes away to look at John.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Okay," he said after a pause. "Better than Greg."

"If Lestrade wants to pretend that he's alright, I'm not going to be the one to tell him otherwise," Sherlock dismissed. John folded his legs underneath him and began to unwrap the bandage from around his fingers.

"How's your finger?" Sherlock asked, glancing at it.

"Alright," he said, grimacing as he pulled the material free. "It's swollen, that's all." He redid the splint but loosened the fabric a little to stop it cutting into his skin as much. He felt at his cheek, wincing when he touched the bruises. "How bad is my face?"

"No worse than usual."

John glared. Sherlock smirked, returning his attention to the flower, and reached out his hand. John looked at it.

"What are you doing?"

"You are spoiling the moment, John," Sherlock reprimanded, and took John's good hand in his.

"Ahh, okay," John said. "I see." He moved so that he was sat next to Sherlock, leaning slightly against him.

"You realise that we may be here for hours yet?" Sherlock murmured.

"I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon."

"True," he acknowledged, running a thumb loosely over John's fingers. Personally, between the science and adventure of the thing and the presence of the boy next to him, Sherlock couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be.

* * *

><p>"I am so very bored."<p>

"You've told us. Five times already."

"Well, I am! At least battling to the death was _interesting._"

"What a lovely notion," Greg muttered.

"Irene, stop whining," Kate said. "We're all bored."

"_Sherlock's _not."

"Would you like to sit and watch the flower?" John called. "_Please _sit and watch the flower."

"I'm not making you watch it," Sherlock argued. "You're welcome to go elsewhere."

"No, because I want to stay with you. I am, however, losing circulation in my fingers and I'm pretty sure I've lost the use of both my right l- nope, both, definitely both my legs," John said. "You must be uncomfortable too."

"I hadn't noticed," Sherlock said, perfectly truthfully.

"Come on, I can take a turn," Kate said. "You must need the loo or something if nothing else."

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted.

"Staring at a cluster of petals for four hours without blinking is not 'fine'," Greg said.

"You can follow or not, but I'm going to go and investigate the area," Irene said.

"For what?"

"More numbers, food sources, anything of interest."

"I told you not to trust the food, and we _have _numbers." Sherlock said, gesturing at the flower.

"Sherlock," Kate said warningly.

"Hey," John said, kissing him lightly. "C'mon. Time to take a break."

"Go and get something to eat," Greg suggested.

"Why is the entire group suddenly determined to mother me?" Sherlock scowled.

"Because you are our resident five year old," Irene explained patiently.

"When _was _the last time you ate?" Kate said curiously. Sherlock hesitated.

"That's it, we're definitely taking a break," John declared, getting stiffly to his feet. He looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"What?"

"Don't make me come over there and make you," Greg warned.

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," Sherlock grumbled, but he got up all the same. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Irene said.

"There's some stew left, I think," Kate said, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No, thank you. There's a patch of trees nearby that I want to spend some more time studying."

"Excellent," Irene beamed. "Greg?"

"No, thanks. I'll do flower-watching duty."

"Kate?"

"I think I'd better stay here and keep an eye on Greg. He has this thing about setting fire to flowers."

Greg shot her a sharp look, but burst out laughing. "It _would _be fun, you have to admit. What do you think, Sherlock?"

"Don't be cruel," Irene said, not bothering to hide a smirk at the sheer horror on Sherlock's face. "We'll take the gun."

"We'll keep the knife," Greg said. Irene nodded.

"Come on then, you two," she said.

"Two?" John said.

"You _are _coming, aren't you?" Sherlock said, like he hadn't even considered an alternate. John glanced around and saw everybody wearing the same 'isn't-it-obvious?' expression.

"Probably," he admitted. Sherlock turned, grinning, and bounced off into the woods before anybody could say another world. Sighing good-naturedly, John followed. Irene remained long enough to mouth 'goodbye' at Kate, before striding after them with all the air of a mother attempting to control two raucous children.

Kate turned back around, still chuckling to herself. Greg was watching her, his face unreadable.

"What?" she asked, caught off guard.

"Nothing," he said.

"Yeah, because that's why you look like I just kicked your puppy. What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, honestly. It's just, you know… you two. You're happy together. And then there's those two, and they're happy together too."

"I'm not sure Sherlock _does _happy."

"Probably not in any socially acceptable form, no, but you get what I mean."

"Yeah," she acknowledged, "I do." He nodded, lips in a tight line, and looked away.

"It's not the end, you know," she said. "Losing Molly, I mean."

"Yeah, I know," he said gruffly. "But right now, it kinda feels like it."

She nodded, and left it at that. "So when was the last time _you_ ate?"

"A while ago," he admitted. She folded her arms.

"I might not be able to make Sherlock do anything, I'm pretty sure I could take _you _in a fight. You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry," he protested.

"That's a lie."

"It's a waste of rations."

"Also a lie. What is it with all of you and your stupid self-denial? Go and eat the bread and quit your bitching."

"You have such a way with words."

"One of my many talents. Go on, I can watch the shitty flower."

"Thanks," he said gratefully, and they switched places. He rummaged around in the heap of supplies, noting with a pang of worry that they really didn't have that much left. He found a hunk of bread as commanded and bit into it, ignoring how stale it was.

A few feet away, Kate was still watching intently when she felt the ground beneath her move, ever so slightly. She leant in closer, captivated, and watched as the beautiful blossom started to twitch and then to slowly unfurl. At the very centre she could see something glinting in the sunlight, something so thin it was hard to see. She frowned and leaned in closer.

* * *

><p>Several hundred miles away, a man in a room flicked a switch.<p>

* * *

><p>The needle pierced into Kate's neck before she realised what it was; had emptied its contents into her bloodstream before she had time to even cry out. The spike flew out of the flower's heart and embedded itself in her throat in less than a second, and once hollow and useless it fell harmlessly away. It was impossibly quick-acting, nothing found anywhere in nature. Her pupils blew up and then shrunk to a pinpoint before returning to a shaking normal.<p>

And then she was running.

Greg heard the footsteps and spun around just in time to see the knife, flashing in Kate's hand. He raised his arm in front of his neck and the blade tore through his jacket, through his skin. He cried out and scrambled away, but she kept coming towards him. He slammed his body into hers, making sure the knife was pushed aside, and she stumbled backwards. She lunged at him again, frantically, but he twisted away from the blade. Trying to move away, he stumbled on a rock, and her fingers clenched into his shoulders and pulled him to the ground.

He was bigger and heavier and so he tried to pin her down, one knee across her wrist to stop the blade from reaching him. But Kate was strong, much stronger than she'd ever been. She pushed him away like he was nothing and came at him again. He recoiled but not quickly enough, the blade catching his chin but missing his throat.

She rolled so that she was sitting on top of him, knife still gripped tight in her hand, but he took her by surprise by grabbing her tight around the waist. He managed to throw her off but she dragged him with her so that they were lying side by side, her still desperately clawing at him, snarling. She was unsteady, hands trembling too much to use the weapon efficiently, but the zeal she was putting into her strikes more than made up for it.

He felt something underneath him, something large and solid, and he closed his hand around it. Seizing a handful of her hair in his hand, he raised the rock. She caught a glimpse of it and tensed..

And then, for one fragment of a second, her face softened. Her eyes grew wide and some of the haze obscuring them flitted away, leaving nothing but fear. He saw the strands of hair falling between his fingers- _blonde, bleached by the sun- _and remembered the sensation of Molly crumpled, dead against him, and he knew that he couldn't do it.

He let the hair fall from his grasp and then her knife was plunging into his chest, again and again and again.

They heard the cannon shot and the first thing John did was look at Sherlock and the first thing Sherlock did was look at John, and Irene was halfway back to their base camp by the time the two of them had started running.

"What is it?" John shouted at Sherlock, wondering why the hell they had gone so far, why they had gone at all. "Who?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, and he seemed more scared by that than anything else.

They ran fast and hard, and they arrived at the same time as Irene. John realised with a wave of horror that the bloodied body was Greg, the girl crouching over it Kate. Her head weaved backwards and forwards slightly like she couldn't quite focus, neck tilted at a not-quite-natural angle.

"Kate?" John called uncertainly. Her head snapped around violently. A wave of solid fear hit John, a physical presence, because he could tell that the person staring at them wasn't Kate anymore. She sprang forwards, bloodied knife gripped in her hands. And then Sherlock raised the gun and fired one shot, straight through her torso, and she collapsed to the ground in a spray of red.

Irene started to move forwards, but Sherlock held out an arm to keep her back. "Don't," he said.

"But it's Kate!"

"No, it's not. Not anymore."

"Irene!" Kate called weakly, attempting to push herself up and failing. "Irene, help me!"

"It's a trap," Sherlock said. "Just another trick."

"You don't_ know_ that."

"Yes, I do, and so do you. Look at her, Irene- look _properly. _That's not Kate."

"Irene, trust me," the girl begged. "Help me, please!"

Sherlock reached out to grab Irene but she swung her fist and hit him, knocking him aside. She had only gotten two or three steps forward when another set of arms closed around her, pinning her arms to her sides.

"Get off me!" she roared, twisting desperately in John's grasp.

"No," he said. "He's right, Irene."

"He's not!" she spat, still trying to escape. "He's wrong, he's always bloody wrong!"

"You know he's not."

"Stop it! He's not right, he's not! Stop blindly trusting whatever he says!"

"What do you want?" Sherlock said angrily. "Do you want me to prove it?"

"Sherlock, don't-" John said, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He took several steps towards Kate, who immediately switched back into attempting attack.

"Do you believe me now?" he shouted, gesturing at Kate's feeble slashes towards him.

"That's enough, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock kicked disgustedly at Kate's wrist and the knife flew from her hand. She squirmed after it, hand outstretched to feel desperately for the handle.

"Well, do you?" Sherlock demanded.

"I said, that's enough!" Irene turned her head away and John couldn't help but feel the sob wrack her body. "Irene?" he said, trying to catch a look at her face.

"Let go of me," she said softly, with the kind of composure that takes a lifetime to perfect. "Please. I promise I won't go near her."

"Okay," he said warily, and let go. True to word, Irene stayed her distance, resolutely looking away.

"We should step aside," she said. "The hovercraft will be arriving soon."

"There hasn't been a second cannon shot yet," Sherlock said.

"And you think that there won't be?" she snarled. "Tell me what's going to happen instead. Tell me the other possibilities. And if you can't, let's just get away and let them do what they're supposed to do."

"We'll go," John said. He laid his good hand on her arm, but she jerked away violently. He held his hands up apologetically, and she swept ahead of them without looking back at either of the bodies; not the one mutilated and ripped apart, not the one still twitching and whimpering.

"Is there anything we can do?" John whispered to Sherlock.

"Nothing that I know of," he replied. "I'm assuming it's some kind of toxin emitted by the flower. It could be in gas form, so don't go anywhere near it for now. But as for a cure, I can't think of any reason why they'd make it reversible."

"Either way, it's too late now," John said.

Sherlock looked down at the gun in his hand as though he had forgotten he was holding it.

"I suppose it is," he said. "But it worked."

"And that's good enough for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you care that she's dead?"

"_Don't _start that again," Sherlock snapped. "I made the correct decision. It was the _only _decision."

"I know," John said. "I don't dispute that."

"Then what's the problem?"

"That it _isn't_ a problem for you. Greg's dead, Kate's nearly dead, they're both gone!"

"And?"

"Don't you care?"

"Haven't we been through this? What is it you want from me?"

"I don't know! An indication that it's affected you? A sign that killing a human being actually makes you feel something?"

"So you want me to feel guilty for something you'd tell me not to feel guilty about?" Sherlock demanded. "You want me to feel wrong for doing something you admit was right? Because I will tell you right now that if that's being human, then I damn well don't want to be!"

They glared at each other, John too angry for words. The cannon shot finally sounded.

"Your anger is misplaced," Sherlock said. "Deflected."

"Oh, good," he said incredulously. "Are you actually going to stand there and_ deduce_ me?"

"I know you're not angry at me, because I know _you_. You're angry at the Capitol, and at the circumstances, and at yourself. But you aren't angry with me, and you know it."

John didn't want to admit Sherlock was right, but he was. He didn't reply but he did drop his glare, and so Sherlock stepped forwards cautiously.

"Listen to me," he said, lowering his voice. "I'm sorry that Greg is dead. I'm sorry that Kate is dead. I wish I could have stopped it from happening, but I refuse to feel guilty over it, because I did the right thing. I saved Irene's life and my life, and I saved _your _life. I will never feel guilty as long as I know I have done that."

John was quiet. "I'm sorry," he said eventually.

"Don't bother with that," Sherlock said impatiently. "Guilt and apologies, wastes of time. We need to find Irene."

"I'm not a lost dog," a voice objected, and they turned around to see the woman in question stood watching them, as she always seemed to be.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"Of course I am," she said, and it was almost convincing. "So what next?"

"We do as you said," Sherlock said. "Get out of the way and let the hovercraft deal with this. We can come back afterwards."

"And then?"

"And then…" Sherlock said, looking desperately for solutions and failing to find any.

"We keep on going," John filled in. "Keep doing what we've been doing."

"Do we have to play I Spy?" she asked weakly. John smiled at her.

"Not if we can avoid it." And then they left and the hovercrafts arrived, and the hovercrafts left and they returned. They didn't speak again, waiting in silence nearby until it was safe to return. John mentally added 'Gregory Lestrade' and 'Kate Long' to his ever-growing list of 'people I couldn't save' and Sherlock, without wanting to, did the same.

* * *

><p>On the television, an interview was interrupted with no warning by the clip of Kate tearing Greg's chest open with a knife. It lasted over thirty seconds, showing her stabbing him over and over, blade still tearing at flesh long after the pleading stopped and the cannon sounded.<p>

In their bright colours and elaborate outfits, the audience members shifted uncomfortably as they caught a glimpse of Kate's eyes; eyes flashing with something that they couldn't quite put their finger on, but that scared them all the same.

And then the clip snapped off, and the screen switched back to the interview, and the guest picked up their sentence as though they had never been stopped.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N- Oh man, I don't know if I'm happy with this chapter. I hope it's okay. Thank you so much for reading/reviewing/sticking with this. It's really good to be back!**

* * *

><p>In the morning before five became three, in the dead of night, a woman's door in Six was broken down and a troupe of Peacekeepers flooded in. They found Mabel Lestrade sat at the kitchen table, calmly waiting for them. She raised her eyes as they raised their guns.<p>

"I am proud of my grandson," she stated, "and that is all that matters to me." As far as last words go, they were the ones she wanted.

And so it came that, in the end, both died in the belief that the other was still alive.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" a voice said gently. Sherlock ignored it. "Sherlock, look at me."<p>

"Why?" he asked flatly.

"Because I'm worried about you, you dick."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, which is why you've spent the past two hours staring into the trees and saying nothing to anybody."

"In case you hadn't noticed, there aren't many people left to say anything to." Sherlock regretted the harsh words as soon as they'd left his mouth, but he made no effort to apologise for them. John sat down next to him.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not even slightly."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I barely even knew them for twenty-four hours."

"Time works differently in here," John shrugged. "I guess that a day is as good as year when it might be your last."

"They were good people," Sherlock said brusquely. He left it at that.

He didn't _like _how the care flared through his veins, had never asked for the twisting feeling in his gut when he thought of how much blood there had been. He hadn't lied; he didn't feel guilty. He knew he had done the right thing and he felt comfortable with his actions. But that didn't change the fact that two people who Sherlock had felt some respect – perhaps even a form of affection- for were dead. They were bloodied and rotting and dead.

"Sherlock?" John said. Sherlock blinked.

"What was that?"

"I asked if you thought we should move. Away from the rock, I mean."

Sherlock had investigated the flower, working on the logic that a permanent gas emitter wouldn't make any sense, as it would render the 'CC' event pointless. He had been proved correct- after an hour's searching he had found a very thin glass tube lying on the ground, with a pointed end indicating it had injected the toxin.

"It must have had a heat seeking component or been controlled remotely," Sherlock had commented, running his finger over the tiny thing. "There's no way it could have 'accidentally' gotten into her bloodstream."

John had nodded along, but despite the agreement his entire demeanour had screamed 'does it matter?', and so Sherlock had kept further deductions about the thing to himself.

"In case the rock is like the flower?" Sherlock asked.

"The flower, or the berry bushes, or whatever else there is in this godforsaken place."

"And equally it could be like the rain-"

"- which was poisoned-"

"- or the other berry bushes-"

"- which got poisoned-"

"- or the fish-"

"- which are nowhere to be seen and almost certainly poisoned."

"Are you done?"

"Are you? Sherlock, these numbers don't mean anything good. They're not on our side. For every one good one there are about twenty bad ones, and even if it seems good it usually comes with a sting. Doesn't it make sense to leave this one alone?"

"And do what?"

"I don't know- we could always go back to where we were before."

"And then what?"

"Keep on living."

Sherlock snorted. "That's going to be interesting when there's no food left."

"Luckily for you, you're too thin to be killed and eaten."

"I'm serious, John."

"I know. I don't know what you want me to say."

"Say that I'm right," Sherlock said, "because I am. If we leave, we'll die. If we stay here, we might die, but at least there's a 'might'. Irene would agree with me."

Irene was sat on her own, fingering a flower she had pulled off a nearby plant. She hadn't spoken more than a handful of words in hours. Looking at her, Sherlock was suddenly struck by the very strange notion that, out of the three of them, John was coping the best.

"Why are you handling this so well?" Sherlock asked. John frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what happened to Kate and Lestrade. You're taking it well."

"I screamed at you for something I didn't blame you for."

"Yes, but now you're functioning perfectly adequately. You're the most humane out of the three of us, so why are you spared the emotional reaction?"

"I'm not."

"Then why aren't you showing it?"

"Because I've had practice." Sherlock looked at him in a way that invited him to continue. John elaborated.

"My parents both died when I was a child- not that that's anything unusual in Panem- and then my sister's girlfriend died, and it was like Harry died with her. I had people I healed die- not many, I was never allowed near the more severe cases- but enough. And then I got here and the first damned thing I did was kill Serra, and you'd best believe I didn't cope well with that."

"No?"

"Sherlock, I had a breakdown. I was hallucinating. I hid in the forest and I'd have stayed there and let myself die if it wasn't for Sarah."

"You never told me that." He had known John had killed Serra, had worked out that he had taken it hard, but he hadn't known the full extent of the thing.

"Never saw a reason to. And then Sarah died- she was killed- and that was my fault. And the boy we were helping was killed, and that was my fault too. And the girl I was trying to save died, and that's when I met you. And well, you were there for the rest. I killed Jupiter. Molly died. Greg died. Kate died."

"There's been a lot of death," Sherlock murmured.

"Tell me about it. Besides," he continued, "I can't afford to break down again. I can't burden you and Irene like that. So I guess I'm handling it alright, yeah- but that's because I have to. This stuff- this _death_- keeps on happening and happening. You can either let yourself get trampled by it, or keep your head down and try not to think about it too much."

"And does that work?" Sherlock asked, genuinely, curiously.

"It does, but not forever. Eventually it gets you. I think… I'm pretty sure that's what happened to Harry."

Sherlock nodded, a child absorbing information.

"Have you really never grieved somebody before?" John asked. Sherlock hesitated.

"I suppose I have, but it was… different."

"How?"

"I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel sad, I didn't feel angry- I didn't feel anything."

"That's hardly uncommon."

"So why can't that happen again _now_?" Sherlock said, frustrated. He had never cared before, after all. Maybe this was John's fault. Maybe being open to one emotion had opened him to all of them; maybe humanity and compassion and empathy could be transferred through the skin.

He still didn't understand how he felt about John- was still terrified by it- but he didn't want it _gone._ Grieving wasn't like that. It was a hindrance. It was something he didn't want and didn't see a point in. He wanted to be able to go on and leave the dead in the past where they belonged, but he couldn't, and he didn't understand _why. _It had only been hours, but why should it be more than minutes? The bodies having names and faces shouldn't make them anything more than corpses.

"Because life's not fair."

"Inspiring words."

"Something of a family motto."

* * *

><p>"It's midday," Sherlock said, looking up at the sun. "I'd say we're at around one hundred and eighty-nine hours. Maybe one hundred and ninety."<p>

John nodded. "So ten or eleven hours until rock time. Do you think it's the final one?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "These games have lasted an unusually long time already and two hundred hours seems as good a place as any to end it- plus numbers that central? That obvious? I'm fairly certain this particular event was intended to be the last."

"That sounds ominous."

"It is," Sherlock asked. "But also exciting."

"If you insist." John moved his head to peer past Sherlock.

"Stop worrying," Sherlock urged him. "When she wants to speak to us, she will."

"She's had a bad shock, though. She should at least have something to eat."

"As should you."

"I'm not hungry."

"_John._"

"Well, I'm not, and we hardly have anything left now. What is there, one pot of stew?"

"And two bread rolls," Sherlock said, knowing even as he said it that he was grasping at straws.

The food had run out more quickly than they had anticipated. They had become reliant on sponsors, had become used to having enough to eat. It had been too late to turn things around by the time they started running out; rabbits already poisoned, berries turned rotten or absent or deadly. The arena was dying, and the presumed intention was for them to die with it.

"I'm sure Irene knows what she's doing," Sherlock said. "She isn't_ that _stupid."

"Did I really just hear you say that?"

"You're right. Maybe I _had_ ought to eat something."

John chuckled and elbowed him in the stomach. "Go on, you. Go and talk to the scary lady."

Irene couldn't be persuaded to eat, but she did come and sit by the campfire with them. There was something of a standoff between Sherlock and John, leading to them reluctantly splitting a roll. After several long and silent minutes, Irene turned to Sherlock.

"I take it you've reached the same conclusion I have?" she asked.

"Regarding?"

"What we need to do. How to end the Games, and how to finish this."

"Go on."

"I have to die," she said, perfectly calmly.

"You're joking, right?" John said after a few seconds. "This is a joke?"

"No, I mean it."

"I'm sorry, did you miss the 'we're not killing anybody' conversation?" he asked incredulously.

"On the contrary, I supported it wholeheartedly. I still do. It's not killing if I _ask_ you to do it."

"It is! Of course it is! Irene, why the hell would we ever let you die?"

"To end this," she urged desperately.

"It goes against everything we're fighting for."

"There won't _be _anything to fight for if neither of you make it out alive."

"It's not happening," John said flatly.

"You don't-"

"We're not discussing this."

She scowled and got angrily to her feet, sweeping back off to the corner. John looked at Sherlock helplessly.

"Leave her," Sherlock said.

And so leave her they did.

* * *

><p>It was many hours later, even more hours of trailing conversation and dragging silences, that John asked Sherlock to talk to Irene.<p>

"There's a certain sense of déjà vu here," Sherlock muttered.

"No, not me this time. God knows I only made it worse. But you could try."

"Why?"

"She likes you. She trusts you."

"No, she doesn't. It would be irresponsible for her to do either." He didn't enjoy conversation at the best of times, and he certainly wasn't interested when it took his attention away from other, much more interesting things. Night was beginning to fall, and Sherlock was guessing that they were only hours away from the final event.

"Sherlock," John said pleadingly. "Just talk to her. Try and reason with her. Please?"

"Fine," he grumbled, trudging over. John let the 'thank you' drop away from his lips and turned his attention back to the fire, poking at the embers with a stick.

"John dispatched you," Irene said as Sherlock grew near. It wasn't a question.

"He appears to be under the impression that you trust me."

"What a ridiculous notion." He flashed her a smile, but for once she didn't respond. "I meant what I said earlier," she said. Dropping the pretence, he sat down next to her.

"I know."

"It's the logical option, Sherlock. Only two can live."

"That doesn't necessarily mean John and I," Sherlock pointed out.

"But you'd prefer it to be. No, don't bother lying, I'm not a child. It's irrelevant anyway- I have my own reasons, and that isn't one of them."

"I thought you better than this," Sherlock scolded. "You lose a girlfriend and become a martyr?"

"It's not just her. Don't you know what they do to victors? There aren't many from Eight, I know, but we've had so many in One. I've known a few- not closely, but all the same. They're never the same when they come back. Of course they're shaken, they're traumatised- but it's more than that," she said, swallowing hard. Sherlock thought he saw something like fear in the movement.

"They're not their own person anymore. Even though they're not in the arena, they never escape it. Their every movement, every word is controlled by the Capitol. They're puppets and the Capitol pull every single string. They're controlled, oppressed- almost all are prostitutes-"

"How is that-"

"_Don't_," she said. "There is no similarity. When you're a victor, somebody arrives and tells you to drop your plans, drop your boyfriend or girlfriend or family- because it still goes on when you're married, you know. You can have a husband and children and try to leave it all behind, but you'll never get to. Victors are mentors; you can't take another job. Victors are the Capitol's; if they tell you to leave your dying child's beside to fuck a man who's bought you for the night, you have to."

"Not much control," he mused.

"None at all," she agreed. "I thought that, with Kate… I thought that maybe we'd escape it. That there could be a part of my life that belonged to _us_- not them. I thought she could be… something good. You know what that's like, don't you? To have to find your redemption in somebody else?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"But without her, there'll be nothing. There'll be me and I'll be alone again, but my life won't even be my own anymore. I can live with many things, but I cannot live like that. Do you understand?"

"I do," he said.

"So you'll agree?"

"No."

"Why not?" she said, frustrated. "Because of what John thinks?"

"No, it's not that. I'm… sorry."

"But surely you can see it's the logical thing? The best way out of this? Sherlock- please."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

He thought she was going to continue arguing, but instead she sagged. "Okay," she said numbly. "The final event activates soon, I take it."

"In an hour or two, yes. Look, uh… if you need anything-"

"- I won't bother asking you. Don't worry." She did smile at him then, and he laughed. "You can go and tell John you fulfilled your duty."

"She hasn't changed her mind," Sherlock told John when he returned. "She insists it's the right choice."

"But it's _not,_" John said, frustrated.

"Mmm."

John paused like something new had come to him. "You do- you don't agree with her, do you?"

"What she's proposing is logical and she makes some very good points- but no. I don't know why, but no."

John nodded. He leant back against Sherlock, staring aimlessly into the fire. The other man looped his arms loosely around John's shoulders.

"Think they're broadcasting again?" John asked.

"I shouldn't have thought so. I imagine by this stage they're showing either nothing at all or airing segments later on- watching them, checking they're safe and then playing them as if live."

"But you think the cameras are still on?"

"Oh, without a doubt. Everything's continuing as it should be; it's just that none of it's reaching Panem."

"We pissed off a lot of people, didn't we?"

"I think we did, yes," he said, a smile playing on his lips. "Mycroft probably has his head in his hands behind a desk somewhere."

"I really hope he and Harry are okay."

"I don't know about your sister, but Mycroft's probably running Panem by now."

John sniggered. "He can't be _that _good."

"No, 'good' isn't the right word. Thorough, perhaps. Illegal, possibly. Thoroughly illegal should more or less sum him up."

"I'd like to meet Mycroft."

"You really wouldn't."

"I'd like you to meet Harry."

"You really wouldn't."

"Okay, no, I wouldn't. I don't even want to know what you'd deduce about her."

"I could-"

"No!"

They both laughed before falling quiet. John followed Sherlock's gaze up to the carving, the 'CC' staring out over them. "What the hell are we doing, Sherlock?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"Is that hard for you?" John asked curiously. "Not knowing?"

"More than you could ever imagine."

"What did you want to do before this?" John asked. "For a job, I mean."

"Nearly everybody in Eight gets drafted into factory work."

"Ahh, but that wasn't my question. What did you _want _to do?"

"It doesn't matter. As I said, Eight is factories and fabric."

"Humour me."

"Why?"

"What else is there to do?"

Sherlock still didn't see a point, but he went along with it for John's sake. "I would have- I suppose I was interested in Peacekeeper work. Not as a 'normal' Peacekeeper- the force is full of stupid little men with big guns to make them feel clever- but I've heard rumours of some of the work they do to track down suspects in crimes. The process, the techniques, the technology… it sounds fascinating."

"It does," John agreed. "I used to think I'd like to do Peacekeeper work- not that, though, just the standard military stuff."

"Ahh, because you coped so well with shooting Serra." John winced a little at her name, but they both pretended not to notice.

"I know, I know," he admitted. "But that was different. She was a girl, our age. She hadn't done anything wrong. With Jupiter, when I knew it was to protect somebody else, it was different. And I'd have had training, I'd have been older… I think I could have coped."

"Would you still be interested in doing it?"

"Not for Panem," he said. "I used to think… I used to trust them. That was stupid, I know. I guess I still thought that it was all for good reasons- that it _had _to be. But being here? Actually seeing these things for myself? No, not anymore. Not for them."

"Maybe you could re-establish the Peacekeeper force," Sherlock suggested. "Make it fair. Make it trustworthy."

"Yeah, and maybe I could sprout wings and learn to fly," John snorted.

"It doesn't matter either way, I suppose. If we make it out we'll have to be mentors."

"That's assuming they don't just kill us."

"I'll take that over mentoring any day."

John sniggered, then yawned. "Sorry, sorry," he apologised. "You're comfortable."

"Then get some sleep."

"What, and miss the grand finale?" John said. "Not on your life."

* * *

><p>The three of them- John and Sherlock together, Irene by herself- watched the engraving fill in until the rock was as smooth as any other, no indication there had ever been letters. They waited, holding their breath, but there was nothing.<p>

"… what?" John said eventually. "Did something go wrong?" He'd been picturing landslides, volcanos, explosions, tsunamis, a thousand different outcomes. All had involved something more than just the silent, still night air.

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. "Something's happened- we just don't know what yet. Be very careful. Neither of you go near the rocks."

"The same applies to you," John said before Sherlock could move.

"It does not."

"Why not?"

"I'm clever."

"If you go near that thing, I go with you. You know that."

"I'm not being left behind," Irene said, her voice strange after so many hours of silence.

Sherlock grimaced before relenting. "You know, you're really not easy people to protect."

"But we're fun at parties," Irene said, breezing past them to examine the piles of rocks.

There was nothing. Sherlock even tried climbing them- on strict warning that, if he did anything stupid, John would bring him back from the dead and kill him all over again- but there were no signs of any change. Nothing new growing, nothing new dying, nothing falling or spawning. They checked the water levels but they hadn't changed, checked the plant life but it was the same as ever.

"I'm stumped," John said, sitting down by the riverside. "The rocks are fine, the plants are fine, the water's fine- what?" Sherlock was staring at him.

"Say that again."

"The rocks-"

"No, no, the last bit. You said water, the water's fine." John's eyes grew wide as he realised what Sherlock was suggesting. Sherlock dropped to his knees and scooped a handful of water up. He took a sip and rolled the liquid around his mouth, before spitting it out onto the grass. He grimaced.

"What is it?" Irene asked.

"Mercury."

"What?" she said, alarmed.

"The water, it's tainted with mercury."

"You think the whole river's affected?" John asked.

"Every drop."

It disturbed John how unchanged it seemed. There were no blooms of colour or swirls of cloudiness- he wondered if, without Sherlock's input, he would have realised what was wrong. Maybe he would have kept drinking it anyway, ignoring the taste and wondering why he was growing ever weaker. They had had one message hammered into their heads: find a water source. The food and the fighting and everything else had always come second. It had felt as though they could cope with anything, anyone, as long as they had that expanse of life-giving liquid at their side.

"The thirstier we get, the more we drink, the faster we die," Sherlock said, lifting his hand from the water and watching drops fall back in. His mouth twitched. "Neat."

"Sherlock!" John said, appalled.

"You have to admit that as far as execution methods go, it's an intelligent one."

"Now is really, really not the time. How much water do we have left in the bottle?"

"It's half-full."

"It could still rain."

"No, there won't be any more rain. They've gotten bored of playing with us now- this is meant to end things."

"So it's back to sitting around and waiting to see who dies first? Is that seriously it?" John couldn't ignore the panic building in his chest, the sense of dread spreading throughout him.

"Do you have an alternative approach? Because if so, I'd love to hear it," Sherlock snapped. "Right now all we have is Irene's suggestion, and we agreed that-" He stopped mid-sentence as they both hit the same realisation at the same time. They looked over to the pile of supplies and it was so clear to them, the missing item more obvious than anything lying in the clutter.

And then they were running, shouting her name, shouting 'don't' and 'please' and 'stop', and cursing the damned arena with its identical trees that seemed to spring up and disappear and move as the mood took them, and the bushes that got in their way and blocked them off, and the vines that snatched at their hadn't even heard her _leave, _for God's sake, had only realised she hadn't been speaking when it was already far too late. She had always been so good at disappearing, always an expert at melting away into the trees, and the darkness of night was on her side.

The muffled bang froze them in place, but only for a moment. They twisted around to tear towards the source of the noise: John telling himself that maybe it wasn't what it sounded like, maybe he'd gotten it wrong, maybe they'd misplaced the gun. Sherlock was hastily working out the probability of death depending on where she'd aimed the barrel- maybe if she had missed her target, if the gun had slipped, if they _got there in time-_

The cannon shot exploded through the air and through their minds. They both slowed down to a jog, and then to a walk, and they arrived just as the hovercraft was retracting its claws. In the fading light of the thing, Sherlock caught a brief glimpse of something on the ground. He stepped closer to investigate, steadfastly ignoring the thick red liquid seeping into his shoes and the gun lying nearby.

The carving had been done in a patch of dirt, next to a bush. It reminded Sherlock of the engravings scattered around the arena- but this was thinner, wobbly, less precise. It had been hasty, he could tell- scratched quickly and desperately, probably with fingernails. The forest wasn't as dense here, allowing some of the watery moonlight to filter through. Although he could read the words when he leant very close to the ground, it seemed to take several attempts for them to fix themselves inside his mind.

_Goodbye Mr Holmes_

Sherlock was vaguely aware of a hand touching his shoulder. "Sherlock?" John asked quietly. Sherlock straightened up, but he didn't reply. He turned to John and let himself be pulled into his arms. The pain inside Sherlock's gut was doubling by the second, twisting and cramping every cell of his body. He found himself suddenly feeling tired, for what felt like the first time in years.

"It's over," John said quietly. He raised the fingers of one hand to tangle in the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull. "We can go home. It's over."

_It's over. _Irene had taken things into her own hands and had died very much her own woman. She had saved Sherlock and John from days of thirst and agony. The knowledge was a lead weight stitched permanently into Sherlock's heart, a price he could never repay. _It's over._

Sherlock forced himself to stand upright. John's hand found his and squeezed reassuringly.

"Ready?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and they stood side by side. They were expecting the usual blare of trumpets, the triumphant announcement of winning. There was nothing. They waited, uncertain, but still there was nothing.

"What are they waiting for?" John asked weakly.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. Before he could make any guesses, a voice boomed into the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games," the announcement began. "The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rulebook has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

There was a small burst of static, and then nothing more.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N- Thank you so much for your continued support, guys. I'm sorry for all the angst, but if you came into a Hunger Games fanfiction expecting good times, somebody told you a very cruel lie. **

**The next chapter will be the final one.**

* * *

><p>"Camera forty-eight!" somebody barked out desperately. Azaiah suppressed a groan, and tapped at the keyboard. She <em>hated <em>camera work. She was supposed to be Design, not Broadcast, but it seemed like lately everybody was being reassigned. She hadn't seen some of her fellow Gamemakers for days (though admittedly there was little love lost there).

Her grumbling stopped when the camera switched and she saw what everybody was getting so excited about. Azaiah swore and threw herself back into things, tapping at screens and altering sliders and getting the footage out just in time. She breathed a sigh of relief as the 'Panem feed' screen filled with woman from One, calmly placing the barrel of a gun against the pale skin of her throat.

"You cut that close," somebody said, in a tone neither congratulatory or condemning. She scowled.

"What are you doing here?" she asked the man standing at her elbow. It always freaked her out how quietly he could appear. She never seemed to notice his approach.

"Watching," he said. "Waiting."

"Don't you have work?"

"I was with the President. He has a message for you, by the way."

"Which is?" she said, biting back jealousy. _She _never got summoned to talk to the President, and she'd been a Gamemaker for at least twice as long.

"Don't miss out anything that happens next," he said, noting her finger hovering over the 'CUT' button. "They'll still be switching between cameras as they see fit, but don't stop anything from going out."

"Anything?" she said, alarmed. "Is that wise? I mean, suicide is all well and good-" Her words were punctuated by an appropriately timed gunshot, and the woman's body crumpled to the ground. "- but what if they start talking? Do you really want to risk exposing Panem to their rebel nonsense?"

"You can't cut off a story before it reaches its end. This is the final chapter, and you want to just stop reading?"

"Of _course_ not," she said, annoyed. "I'm sick of this damn thing. I want it over. But equally, there's a good reason I've been working my ass off not to show any of their stupid, childish melancholy. I don't see why we should start airing grieving _now._"

"I think they'll have more important things on their mind than grieving," he deadpanned.

"Eight and Twelve approaching," somebody called out.

"But _everything? _What happens if they refuse?"

"Then good for them. We can wait and see which one dies of poisoning first. Their message, their mission- none of it matters at this point. The outcome is going to be the same." He paused. "Besides, if they don't want to get their knives bloodied, there'll be… alternative ways of sorting things out."

"They're here," somebody called, as Holmes and Watson stumbled into the shot. Azaiah snapped her eyes to look at her fellow Gamemaker. His cold blue eyes glistened with something she couldn't quite read. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Many things, I'd imagine. Now, if you could just shut up for five seconds, we're about to see history in the making."

"Announcement in ten!" someone shouted. People began frantically flipping switches, altering variables, preparing the sound systems for broadcast. Azaiah looked over at the frenzy and idly swivelled her chair from side to side. Censorship might be boring, but at least it wasn't much work as of late.

"What are they waiting for?" Twelve was asking.

"Three…" someone in the room began to count down.

"I don't know," Eight replied.

"Two…" They mouthed the 'one', and then the announcement began. Azaiah leaned back and watched the children's faces as the man recited his lines down the microphone. Everybody had been falling over themselves to praise Lucan when he announced his plan- change the rules and then change them back. Personally, Azaiah found it ridiculous. This whole 'number' business was ridiculous. Azaiah longed for the days when you could just put twenty-four tributes in an arena with twenty-four hatchets and wait. People were so fussy about entertainment these days.

Azaiah snorted a little when they finished with 'and may the odds be ever in your favour'; she'd always found the line cheesy. When she glanced over at the Gamemaker by her side, he was smiling, but she didn't think it was for the same reason. Turning back to her screen, she shuddered. She didn't know what it was about him that always set her on edge. Very few people could intimidate Azaiah, but Sebastian Moran managed it every time.

* * *

><p>In District Twelve, two Peacekeepers were stood awkwardly, hands in pockets. The other two were focusing on bashing the front door in.<p>

"It's so unnecessary," a nearby, tired-looking woman fussed anxiously. "Couldn't they at least knock?"

"She didn't answer the door," her friend replied without turning her head, careful not to draw any attention.

The door splintered and broke, and the four Peacekeepers flooded in. "Watson?" one shouted as they swarmed. "Harriet Watson?" She caught eye of the pile of bottles in the sink and grimaced. "Fucking alcos," she muttered. Outside, there was a sudden burst of static as the huge screen leapt into life.

"Aww, man, they're broadcasting again," one of the men said. "I don't want to miss it."

"Then hurry up," the leader snapped. "Try the bedroom door."

He did so, and found it wouldn't budge. "It's blocked," he said.

"Let me try," the leader grunted, shoving the other man out of the way and slamming into the door as hard as he could. It shuddered slightly, but somebody had pushed something up close on the other side, blocking it off. He tried again and then scowled, drawing back.

"It's blocked," he said, not leaving any space for a retort. "Can we go around the back?"

"Oh, for God's sake," a woman said, and she reached into her belt. The others, understanding what was going to happen, scurried away with their arms over their heads. Pulling out a small, compact ball, the woman crouched down. She set it in motion towards the door and raced from the room.

The explosion was small: localised, but fierce. They heard the muted bang from outside and tore themselves away from the screen to venture back in, masks strapped firmly to their faces. There was little smoke and even less fire, but it paid to be safe. The smallest Peacekeeper was elected to work their way in, squeezing past the destroyed obstacle; a smouldering wreck of what had been a wardrobe. When she entered the room, she led with her gun.

Yet instead of a person, she found nothing. She looked around stupidly, but there was no clear place where anyone could be hiding. She caught a glimpse of something in the corner- a scrap of paper, left trapped under a stone on the very far side of the room. She darted and grabbed the note, grateful that the flames hadn't beaten her to it. She was less grateful when she read what it said.

_Sorry, guys, too late! Send John my love.  
>Harry xoxo<em>

* * *

><p>In District Eight, nobody was attempting to track down Mycroft Holmes. Nobody would be that stupid.<p>

* * *

><p>In an area of Panem only two people knew the exact coordinates of, in a patch of forest and grass and water hemmed in by invisible forcefields, filled with poisoned water and toxic plants and the stench of death, the sun was beginning to rise. Within a few seconds, it was high in the sky.<p>

"I suppose they want this well-lit," Sherlock muttered. Neither he nor John had moved, the recent words ringing in their heads.

"You knew this was coming," John said, voice hollow.

"I suspected," Sherlock admitted. "Letting two live? They were never going to follow through on that. Too risky, too strange, too _different. _They don't want change. They can't handle it."

"If you knew- if you bloody well _knew_ it was going to end this way, why- when they announced it, why did you- look, you know what I'm asking," John said, lowering his voice.

Sherlock did know the question, but he wasn't sure about answer. It seemed weak, somehow, to admit that the revelation hadn't been instant. That, at first, he had ignored logic in favour of emotion. It had only been later, after the initial rush had worn off, that the suspicion had flourished from a niggle of doubt into knowledge of the most likely outcome. Sherlock should have changed things then, should have taken it back- but there had still been that stupid seed of hope, that little voice whispering 'maybe…'

"Because for a very intelligent man, I make appalling life decisions," he answered eventually. John snorted, the laughter slightly bitter.

"And I thank God you do," he sighed. "C'mere." He drew Sherlock close and kissed him. Their lips moved gently together, and Sherlock only just remembered to drag the gun towards himself with his foot. They broke apart after a few seconds.

"You do know what has to happen next, don't you?" Sherlock checked, his voice gentle.

"Yeah," John said sadly. "Yeah, I know."

"I am sorry," Sherlock said sincerely.

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

Sherlock probed around for more words to say, but found none. There was no point in putting it off any longer, he supposed. He stepped back and raised the gun to his head, deciding to do it from the side rather than try and aim the thing inside his mouth- _could be awkward, chance of missing. _But before he could even think about pulling the trigger, the weapon was yanked from his hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" John shouted.

"What do you think?" Sherlock snapped, confused.

"Are you insane? No way, Sherlock, no way."

"Well, what did you think I meant?" John looked at him disbelievingly. Slowly, as if demonstrating something to a child, he raised the gun to his own chest. It was awkward with his dominant hand still splinted, but the intention was clear.

"Don't you _dare,_" Sherlock said. "I mean it, John, put that thing _down_."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" John said, but he lowered the gun anyway. "Sherlock, only one of us is walking out of here, and it should be you."

"Why?"

"Because you're _you!" _John said it like it was obvious, because to him, it was. "You're Sherlock Holmes!"

"And you're John Watson, and enough good people die in these Games without you joining them."

"Sherlock, please," John said, nearly begging by now. "I don't want… I can't take it, okay? I can't watch you dehydrate or poison yourself with mercury and just sit around hoping you outlast me- because that's what I'll be hoping, trust me." Sherlock heard the whole sentence, but he was stuck on one particular word.

"Hope…" he echoed.. _Hope. Luck. Chance, odds. 'May the odds be ever in your favour'. The Hunger Games, the games, games, odds, favour, the odds, in your favour... _

"They want this over," he said, the ideas unravelling in his head to fall out of his mouth. "They want this over as badly as we do. They predicted this would happen- oh, they may be cruel, but they're not stupid. Somebody worked it out, and that somebody made contingency plans."

"What do you mean?"

"I always did think it was a strange thing to find under a bush." Sherlock pulled the small bottle out of his pocket, a space others might have used for water or weapons.

"You've been keeping that thing with you?"

"It was a puzzle, John. I never could leave a puzzle." He twisted the cap off, finally opening the damn thing, and found it came away with surprising ease. "Its spawning must have been an event, possibly one of the first in the game," he said. He shook the pills out into his hand, twin strawberry capsules. Sherlock held the emptied out bottle up to the light and snorted derisively. "Oh, they get zero credit for originality."

"Can I see?"

He held the bottle out. John took it gingerly and peered inside. Etched onto the base, so shallow that it couldn't be seen from the underneath, was a carving- tiny, delicate. It was identical to those they had seen around the arena, except for one detail: where they had been numbers, this was a word. He handed it back.

"_Finis,_" Sherlock read out loud. "'The end'. It's still scheduling, just a variation."

"So it's poison?"

"No, they'd never have given us two pills if that was the case. They're identical to look at, but only one can be poison- the other has to be safe."

"So if I take one and you take the other, one of us lives and the other dies?"

"Taking the decision out of our hands." He tapped at the bottle with his fingers. "Kind, in a way, I suppose. What do you think?"

John thought about spending the rest of his life alone, every breath he took laced with the ghosts of those Sherlock hadn't. He imagined watching Sherlock die- maybe violent and fast, maybe slow and agonising- while he stood nearby, waiting to be declared a victor and rewarded for his good luck, to be decorated with gold and blood. But then he imagined himself dying- again, maybe painless, maybe excruciating- but with the knowledge that it had saved Sherlock's life. And then he didn't know what to think.

"Would it be quick?" John said, hating how small his voice sounded.

"I can't know, but I'd imagine so. They won't want to drag it out any longer. As this says- 'the end'."

"And what do _you _say?" John said, looking at Sherlock intently. Sherlock looked down at the pills in his hand, and then back up into John's eyes.

"I say," he began slowly, "that from the day I was picked, I intended to play this game and I intended to win. I still do. But I thought that winning simply meant living- now, I'm not so sure. I don't think it's winning if I swallow a pill and I happen to live. I don't think it's winning if I can go without water for longer than you. I _don't _think it's winning if me living means you have to die. I don't see anything in that situation but loss." He turned the pills over in his hand, running his long fingers over their shape. "You can't win this- not the way I want to- by playing by their rules. Luckily for me, I've never had a problem with cheating."

John watched as Sherlock turned to the nearby bushes. He could guess at what Sherlock was looking for, but he didn't know what to say about it; much less what to do. He quietly lay the gun on the ground as Sherlock finally found a small cluster of the orange fruit, and plucked a handful off deftly. The cloth around John's fingers was coming undone.

"From what I understand, they're incredibly toxic," Sherlock told him, turning back around. "One or two will cause death within a few minutes."

"Nobody gets to win."

"And so everybody does," Sherlock finished. Again, he asked "what do you think?", and again, John didn't know.

"I…" he began, uselessly. "With the pills, there's a chance you could live."

"It's not a chance I want." John was still unsure, but he held out his bad hand and Sherlock tipped several of the berries into it. John picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. He tried to remember what Greg had said about the effects, but he couldn't. His mind had set up an impenetrable barrier to the memory. _Probably for the best._

"John, listen to me," Sherlock said urgently, watching his face. "You don't have to do this."

"Sherlock," he said, dropping the berry back with the others. "For once in your life, shut up."

Sherlock leant down and kissed him once, very gently. "On the count of three?" he asked, tipping the pink pills into the bottle and setting it aside.

"The count of three," John agreed.

"One," Sherlock began. John reached out his spare hand and their fingers entwined silently- an aching reminder of a rooftop a million miles away, a night a million years ago.

"Two." Sherlock took one final look at John's face. He smiled- there was sadness in it, but it was a smile all the same- and then shut his eyes.

"Three," John finished for Sherlock. He raised the berries to his mouth and, next to him, Sherlock did the same.

The berries had barely touched John's lips when trumpets began to blare. It was the same victory music as ever, he knew- but he couldn't shake the sensation that it was different somehow. Slightly off-key, slightly too fast. Before he could give any real thought to it, the announcer was gabbling frantically.

"Stop! he shouted. "Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! I give you- the tributes of Districts Eight and Twelve!"

John dropped the berries and let himself fall into Sherlock's waiting arms.

"You asshole," he whispered into Sherlock's ear. "You utter, utter asshole. You knew, didn't you?"

"I suspected."

John laughed in wonder. "Fucking Christ."

"It wasn't a trick," Sherlock insisted, voice too low to be picked up over the fanfare of trumpets. "I wasn't lying. I would have done it."

"I don't care. All that matters is that you didn't have to." And then they were kissing, and the roar of exuberant crowds back in the Capitol was flooding the arena, pumped through the speakers. When John pulled away he found that he couldn't stop laughing, even through the tears running down his face.

The fraying piece of fabric around his hand finally gave up and drifted away from his skin. He caught it just before it hit the dirt and gave a cursory glance to his broken finger, before deciding that he really, really couldn't be bothered. He knotted it loosely around Sherlock's wrist instead.

"For safekeeping," he said, but the hovercraft overhead drowned his words out. He didn't much care. Sherlock's hand firmly in his, the two of them stepped onto the ladder together. Frozen in place as his feet hit the first rung, John rose and watched the arena fall away; slipping out of sight until it was nothing but a bad memory, a nightmare burning behind his eyelids.

* * *

><p>Thomas Lucan had never known the main control room to be in silence this complete before. He was overly conscious of his own breathing, his quickened heartbeat. One by one, people noticed his presence and turned to look at him- confused, desperate, their eyes searching for answers he didn't have.<p>

He had to get out.

He yanked the door of the small office closed behind him and rested his head in his hands. Lucan sucked in a breath through his teeth, and let it out slowly. He told himself that he could have one minute- sixty seconds exactly- and then he would leave and deal with things, as a Head Gamemaker should.

There was a slight crackle in his ear, and he frowned. He thought he had switched the earpiece off, but admittedly he had other things on his mind. He turned the thing back off, only for it to reactivate less than a second later.

"You knew this was coming," a soft voice murmured, and his eyes widened. His lips began to move, but the bomb in the corner of the room detonated before he could get any further.

* * *

><p>As soon as the door closed behind them, one doctor firmly grabbed hold of Sherlock's jacket, the other John's.<p>

"You've gotten so _weak_," one said caringly. "Here- this should help."

The needle between Sherlock's shoulder blades was sharp and cold and most certainly unneeded, but he wasn't awake for long enough to complain about it.

When he woke up, he kept his eyes closed for a few moments. _Smell of antiseptic, sharp- possibly hospital , though lack of noise indicates otherwise. More likely medical location in Training Centre. Naked but some kind of restraint belt around waist, two tubes in right arm- most likely for rehydration, possibly electrolytes or nutrients. Any pain in limbs gone, hair washed and brushed, nobody else in room. Nobody else in room. John not in room. _John.

He opened his eyes. There were no obvious doors or windows; nothing other than his bed and the softly glowing ceiling. The tubes extended into the wall behind him and, when he looked down at his skin, it was clean and unblemished. A portion of the wall suddenly slid open, and a woman walked in carrying in a tray.

"Where's John?" he demanded immediately. She stopped in place and looked at him helplessly. _Ahh. Avox. _"Well, is he safe?" She just looked at him, eyes wide and confused. He was growing impatient. "Come on, did they cut your neck muscles at the same time? You can at least nod."

And nod she did; timidly, but it was there. Presumably she wasn't used to victors being so talkative. It was true that his voice was rusty from lack of use, but he wasn't going to start listening to his body _now. _They didn't give him much food, but his stomach had shrunk so much that he barely managed to finish it all. He had only just swallowed the last bite when they knocked him out again.

That continued for some time- the waking and sleeping, punctuated by gradually increasing meals. Every time somebody brought food, he would ask them the same questions- _is John safe? Is John nearby?_- and they would always reply with a slight and anxious nod. Everybody seemed on edge around him; as though even being around him was dangerous. He liked that.

When he finally woke up and found the restraint gone, tubes gone, he was out of bed before his eyes had fully opened. They'd given him a replicate of outfit he wore in the arena, and he chastised himself for his initial revulsion. _It's just fabric, _he thought crossly as he pulled it on. _You've spent your whole life dealing with fabric._

He paced impatiently until the smooth expanse of wall finally slid open. Karyn, Rook and one of the stylists stood at the end of the corridor, waiting for him. They watched him approach quietly.

"Well done, kid," Rook said, after several seconds of silence. "Always thought you had it in you."

"No, you didn't," Sherlock said evenly.

"No, I didn't, but it was a nice surprise."

"Where's John?"

"Alive. You'll get your reunion later, princess. For now, you need to go and get prettied up."

The stylist scowled at Rook, and lay a finely manicured hand on Sherlock's arm.

"One second," Karyn said before he could be dragged away. "I just wanted to congratulate you, Sherlock. I was impressed- you played your part perfectly."

"What?"

"The romance angle. Very clever idea, very easy to work with. Of course, after the cameras went down and the sponsorship was blocked off, it was less beneficial, but I'm pleased to see you kept it going until the end. A true actor never breaks role."

"I- I didn't-" Sherlock was uncomfortable with how often he found himself lost for words as of recent. Before he could add anything else, he was dragged away by his stylist.

He didn't... he couldn't think. It hadn't all been fake, had it? At first it had been, yes- but no, even then, at the Cornucopia… that wasn't a lie, was it? It had been for real. Though, was it really like Sherlock? What was more likely- him using John to manipulate the viewers, or him genuinely wanting a relationship with the man? The question was laughably easy to answer, and yet…

And then he was being engulfed by his prep team, and it was almost a relief to be able to focus on the annoyance of being made over.

* * *

><p>"That's new," John said, looking at the platform. Glamor nodded once, tightly.<p>

"They had to rethink the entire design- what with two victors, and all."

The rumbling of the crowd outside was loud, and the noise sent John's stomach flipping over. He imagined their cries, their shouts, the sheer energy of so many people in one place. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Sherlock and he wanted to hide away from the world, just the two of them, until everything made sense. He didn't mind if it took a while.

"How about a hug for luck?" Glamor said, and the general feeling of unease that had been building in John exploded into fullness. The man he had met at the start of all of this would rather bathe in acid than offer him a hug. John stood stiffly as Glamor folded his arms around him, and was not shocked when the escort began to hiss words into his ear.

"There was no rebellion, do you understand? Everything continued as normal- nothing was burned, nobody said or did anything stupid, and it's a shame that the cameras were malfunctioning, but at least nothing important was missed. That's the story Panem are being told, and that's your truth from this moment on."

"Okay, I see," John said.

"No, you don't. The President's letting all of that slide, for reasons I can't even begin to guess- but the crap with the berries? The Capitol aired it, every second, and now they're the laughing stock of Panem. They can't cope with that."

"Really?" John said, laughing himself as though Glamor had just told him something hilarious. He had handled one sided conversations before, after all. "What next?"

"Your excuse is that you were following Sherlock's lead. You were hungry, thirsty, scared, in love, whatever- you weren't thinking straight. You're young and confused, and that's all there was to it."

"Sure thing. Where's Sherlock?" He had asked about Sherlock's location and health more often than he had said 'hello' in the past few days, but all he ever got told was that he was alive, and that John would see him later on. As for Harry, nobody would tell him anything at all.

"He's being given some instruction of his own." Glamor pulled away, and when he spoke again his voice was back to normal. "There's gonna be a short delay before the ceremony. Stay here and stare at the walls or something."

John nodded and sat down in a nearby seat. He stretched his left hand out, curling and uncurling his fingers purely because he _could_. All of his injuries were healed, his skin spotless. He tried to remember what had happened to the strip of material Harry had lent him, but found that he couldn't. _Never mind_. By the sounds of it, he had much bigger problems to worry about.

* * *

><p>Nobody would tell Sherlock why he had been taken to sit in this private room, but he had his suspicions. He tapped his fingers against the table in a simple melody, watching the strip of rag shift as his wrist moved. Sherlock had no idea where his own token had gone. Presumably a magnifying glass was considered more inflammatory than a strip of fabric.<p>

He stopped tapping when he heard the door open behind him- at least this room _had _a door- and then resumed when he heard it close lightly. Somebody was in the room with him, he could tell. "Most people knock," Sherlock said. He shrugged. "But then you're not most people, I suppose."

"I should hope not," an alien yet familiar voice said. "It would be so disappointing if the President of Panem was just like all of you ordinary little people, don't you think?"

Sherlock watched, amused, as a cup of tea was set down in front of him. He looked up as somebody dropped into the seat opposite him, cradling his own cup and saucer. The man's smile was wide; his eyes dark, and not so much deep as hollow.

"President Moriarty," Sherlock acknowledged.

"Sherlock," the man grinned. "I think we need to have a little chat."


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock sipped at the slightly bitter liquid, taking his time to reply. "You could say that," he said, setting the cup back down on the saucer.

"It really is so good to finally meet you. Sherlock Holmes: the boy who fought back. Then again- until recently, it wasn't even _you_, not really. There was that plain boy from Six who burned the flowers, and that woman from One who took matters into her own hands." Moriarty mimed raising a gun to his head, letting out a long whistle as he pulled the 'trigger'. "You've just been going with the flow- playing the game. Has it been a good one?"

"What happened in the arena," Sherlock said, voice even. "The rebellion. You saw."

"Oh, come on, don't patronise me. Of course I saw it. I see everything. I hear everything." He leant forwards suddenly. Sherlock's instinct was to shrink away, but he forced himself to remain in place. "I even heard your little talk in the caves," he breathed. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. "What, you really thought a little bit of rain would drown all those big words out?"

"The audience didn't hear anything," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question.

"No. No, that wouldn't have done at _all." _He leant back, seemingly relaxing again. "When you played the romance angle, I was so pleased. It was so different- it was _clever_. It almost got them, you know. People were turning, questioning- '_why _can't they be together? _Why _do they both have to die?' Nice try, but no dice. We changed the rules and we did our work and we fixed that little blip. People stopped caring again. As long as two people _could_ be together- if the possibility existed- that was fair. If somebody died, it was their own fault for being weak or slow. Not ours."

"Why didn't you just kill us?" Sherlock said, because that seemed much easier to talk about. "Why didn't you kill us as soon as Lestrade made his proposal?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"I have my theories."

"Tell me." Sherlock hesitated. "Come on, Sherlock, we're all friends here."

"It impressed you," he said. "It entertained you. It must get so _boring_, watching children do the exact same thing year in, year out. They kill and they die and then one eventually wins. Was it really what you imagined when you became President? That it would be _boring_? At least the rebellion… you found it interesting. It made you sit up and pay attention."

"Good, very good," Moriarty cooed. "And very nearly right. I was paying attention from the start, silly, from the day somebody mentioned you. The scrawny boy from Eight, who could read your life in your face and the way that you moved. And then your private session- oh, I could have _wept_ with joy." The President had a wistful smile on his face remembering it.

"Much more interesting than yet another snivelling thirteen year old, I'd imagine."

"They don't even cry half the time," he said, disgusted now. "Mostly they just shut down and cut and slice their way through- at least Johnny boy had the good grace to break down. This year really has been much more enjoyable, rebellion is always fun to watch."

"But it wasn't aired."

"Of course not. Fun for _me_- dangerous for them. I might have been just a little bit impressed, but I can't have my people getting ideas. I can't have them thinking that refusing is an actual _option_. I let you think it was because it didn't make a difference. It wasn't going to change how many people walked out alive."

"But it did." Something dark crossed the President's face. "There are two of us, in case you miscounted."

"That," he said, "is where the problem lies, Sherlock. If it had just been you or John walking out of that arena, then we wouldn't have had a problem. Not really. The message would have been clear."

"The pills," Sherlock said. "You wanted us to take them."

"I wanted to see if you would. I was so glad when you didn't just fight each other. It would have sent the right message, but…"

"Boring," Sherlock finished for him. "By the way, what_ is_ this message that you keep mentioning? That you're all-powerful? That nothing can stand in your way?"

"More or less. What the Capitol giveth, the Capitol taketh away." He smiled around the edge of his cup. "And I can still take away."

"What do you want?" Sherlock said, hating the words but not seeing a way to avoid them.

"I want you to _behave,_" he said sharply. "I want you to forget all about rebellion, and pacifism, and change. If you don't…"

"Let me guess, I get killed?"

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean- I'm going to kill you anyway, someday." His tone was light, but it wasn't joking. Sherlock thought of the things in the arena- the hound, the river, the berries, the pills, the flower- and he didn't doubt it for a second. He wondered if there would be any way to hide; if it would even be worth trying.

"No, no, no," Moriarty continued. "If you don't do as I say- I will _burn _you." He let his gaze linger on Sherlock's face, searching for a reaction that Sherlock was determined not to show. "I will burn the _heart _out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty's gaze flickered to the cloth tied around Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock's entire body tensed as he realised what the President was implying. "After all- isn't that the cause of all of these problems? Your 'heart'?"

"Leave John out of this," he said, quietly. "I took the berries, I made the speech, I made the decision. Not him."

"And why did you make that decision again? The others- they have their sense of right and wrong, their sense of justice- but where's yours? What's stronger: your desire to do what's right or your desire to match me and my Gamemakers?" Sherlock's silence was damning. "But John- oh, John- he brings out something altogether different in you, Sherlock. Something dangerous. You're only a real problem when you're together- and as much as it pains me to admit it, you _are _a problem."

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

"Funny, that's funny." He set his empty cup down. "You see, there are now people in Panem who believe that they can stand up to me- that they can take things into their own hands, that their strength can overcome my power. I can't let them think that, Sherlock. It's just not _true. _You need to forget about everything to do with this 'uprising' - and I really do mean ev-er-y-thing." He drew the last word out, emphasising every syllable.

"John," Sherlock said, voice hollow. The President beamed, proud that he'd picked up so fast.

"I'll give you a few more days to play the silly teenagers, head-over-heels in lust- but then that's _it. _Panem need to believe that you two have broken apart, that you have no interest in each other at all. That you were young, and stupid, and naïve. After all, love can't conquer anything if it never really existed in the first place, can it?"

"We could act," Sherlock said, but Moriarty was already snorting.

"No, no, no, that wouldn't do at _all. _It's not just for show, you know. Like I said- you're dangerous together, Sherlock."

"You aren't afraid of him like you are of me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Liar." The President's eyes flashed, something malicious glinting in the depths of blackness, but he let it go.

"So separating us?" Sherlock demanded. "That's your plan? And what if John carries on fighting?"

"He won't. He needs you as much as you need him- he might be the catalyst, but you're the spark. There's no use having righteousness without a rebel."

"You're a fool to underestimate him," Sherlock warned. "Or me."

"I hope I'm not. I really do. I hope that you're intelligent enough to see that this is the only solution: your last chance. You two are going to go your separate ways, and you are going to do as I tell you, because otherwise…" His gaze returned to the rag around Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock felt the bizarre urge to cover it up, to put it in some safe place far away.

"Oh, and not a word about this to lover boy," Moriarty added. "Make him believe it too."

"I-"

"_So_ sorry to cut this short, but I better be off," Moriarty said, checking his watch. "We don't want to be late for the awards ceremony, do we? Come on, dear, get up." Sherlock rose slowly to his feet. Moriarty held the door open for him and smiled.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he said, as Sherlock passed through.

"I look forward to it," Sherlock said, just as the door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

><p>The sound of the anthem sent a chill down John's spine. Whenever he heard the familiar notes it brought back memories of the hard ground and cold air, and the faces of the dead appearing in the sky. It was an association he didn't think he'd ever lose.<p>

He focused himself on the order of events, taking some comfort in the predictability. He could hear the thunderous applause as the prep teams were presented- two of them this year, of course. But then bizarrely, out of turn, the stylists took their bows. It made more sense when the escorts and mentors were introduced together: the change was for Twelve's benefit. Glamor was all they had.

The plate under John's feet rumbled slightly and then began to launch into the air. The light was blinding, the crowd deafening. On the other side of the stage, the same thing was happening to Sherlock. He had been taken straight from his meeting with the President to the ceremony, and the words were still ringing around his head, catching on the corners of his skull.

He had always known that the President was far from the kind and noble leader he pretended to be- had always seen through that particular act- but Moriarty was more than cruel. He was cunning. He was intelligent, and incredible, and his mind worked like Sherlock's did. Sherlock had been able to guess his way around the arena and into the President's head, could follow his thought patterns like a hopscotch grid. The similarity unnerved Sherlock more than he liked to admit.

Sherlock hated not knowing what to do. A huge part of him, enormous, wanted to rebel: there had never been a surer way to ensure Sherlock did something than to tell him explicitly not to. And he had spent years- seventeen of them, to be precise- knowing that what was happening was wrong, but never caring enough to say anything. He had never wanted to change the world; knowledge had been enough without action. If it wasn't affecting him, why should he care?

He could almost hear John's response: _because it's what's right. _

Now, he saw that. Now, he wanted to move. He wanted to rip down the rules, ruin the Capitol, flick a match and watch Panem _burn._

But then his platform reached the surface and he caught sight of John and his heart flipped over in his chest, entire body swamped in a desperate relief of 'he's-safe-he's-here-he's-safe'. He crossed the gap in two long strides, met in the middle by John, and then there were lips and tongues and teeth and John's hands in his hair and his hands around John's waist, arms curled tight, and the interviewer was saying something Sherlock genuinely could not have cared less about.

Sherlock pushed his head into John's shoulder and inhaled. He imagined John lying dead, killed by Sherlock's decision to rebel, and wondered if that still counted as 'what's right'.

When he finally drew back, John was looking at Sherlock with something like fear in his eyes. _He's not an idiot, _Sherlock thought, a sentiment he would never express aloud. Sherlock frowned as he noted the cane in John's hand, watched him limp the few steps over to the provided sofa. He wanted to question it, but somebody had already started a countdown to broadcast.

As the man with the microphone launched into a stream of jokes, John took Sherlock's hand. _I have a few days, S_herlock reassured himself when pangs of unease pierced him. He was hyperaware that every movement he made, every word he spoke, was directly linked to John's fate. _He said I had a few days before I had to choose._ _For now, we're safe._

The lights dimmed and the seal appeared on the screen in front of them. The hand around his clenched tighter, and Sherlock wasn't sure if the anxiety in the air was John's or his own. He didn't want to watch twenty-two people die. What was the point? They were beyond help; his or anybody else's. There was nothing new to be learned.

All the same, watch they did. The video had been edited, as it always was, to focus on the victor- though, in this case, there were two. The reapings and opening ceremony were of little interest to anybody, and the film breezed through them rapidly. Sherlock watched himself and John train together, noticing for the first time just how often Molly or Greg were lurking in the background.

The film seemed to be foreshadowing a romance Sherlock hadn't even noticed- had he and John really spent that long staring at each other? Sherlock could no longer tell what had been faked and what was genuine, lines in his head blurring into a gradient. He was glad to see that his interview had had some of the more questionable lines cut from it, and that there was no focus on _how _he had gotten the eleven. That was where his gratitude ended.

Due to the 'lost footage' from the 'camera errors', the film was free to spend much longer on the deaths, a privilege it took full advantage of. The brief fight at the Cornucopia took nearly half an hour alone, shown from various angles and perspectives. He watched himself get weaker and weaker until he was nearly dead from dehydration, but that was nothing compared to watching John kill Serra.

It wasn't the actual act so much as the aftermath that hurt_._ Hearing it described was nothing like actually watching John break down, seeing things that weren't there, scrabbling at the ground. It was… difficult to watch. _It's in the past, _he told himself firmly. _There's nothing more to understand about it, nothing more to explore or investigate. Move on; there's no point in dwelling on it. _

That helped, and the next set of deaths had little effect on him. He didn't feel a thing until Sally Donovan died, when he did feel a brief burst of relief that his plan had worked out. The poisoned berries didn't make for a nice death.

Sherlock and John found each other. Greg and Molly found each other. Irene and Kate found each other. Sherlock noticed them emphasising the changeability of things- alternating shots of Irene and Molly and Irene and Kate as though they were comparable, mixing the video of Sherlock and Irene's grapple with clips of Sherlock kissing John. Sherlock supposed that the editing was on his side- if that was, in fact, the side he chose to take.

They reached the fragmented section, where the editors had tried their hardest to string something coherent together. Some of the shots they used to pad it out were from much earlier on, Sherlock knew, but the audience didn't seem to notice. As far as they were concerned, all that happened was that the six of them met each other, Molly died, they were sent flowers and then Kate killed Greg. There was no hint of it being chemically induced.

That made Sherlock angry. _It's wrong_. _That's not what happened. They're lying, it's wrong. _He didn't say anything, though, and the anger soon cleared. He watched himself shoot Greg and Irene shoot herself, and remained pleasantly numbed to what was happening on screen.

Then they made the announcement, and they aired every damn second. The words, the kiss, the gun, the pills, the speech, the berries. Sherlock was torn yet again- torn between pride that he had_ finally_ acted on the knowledge that things weren't right, that he had outsmarted the Gamemakers- and shame. Shame, and horror, and fear, because he had caused this. He had put them both in danger, and now he found himself facing a choice he had never wanted to make.

The lights came up and the President himself appeared in person. Sherlock was appalled at the immediate reaction deep within him: fear. Physical, bodily fear, just from being in the same room as the man. When he placed the victor's crown on Sherlock's head, their eyes met. Sherlock's hand unconsciously tightened on John's- only a slight movement, but Moriarty noticed. His smile widened as he moved on.

The next few hours passed in a nameless, faceless blur. Sherlock shook hands, gave false smiles, accepted gifts, with occasional prompting from John to say 'thank you' or elaborate on an answer. He didn't really pay attention to what he was saying- he was locked inside his own head, fighting a war with himself. He had two options.

One: he could do as Moriarty had instructed. He would stay quiet, undo his own work, go his own way from John and live the life of a victor. It would be traitorous. It would be torturous. It would keep John safe.

Two: he could rebel. Mycroft would probably be killed; Harry too. John certainly would. As for Sherlock himself, he wouldn't be kept alive for long enough to make a difference. But at least he would go down as Lestrade and Molly and Irene had- as somebody who was worth something.

The next morning, he still hadn't figured it out. The interview was three hours away, then two, then one, and then he was taking a seat next to John on the sofa and he _still _didn't know what to do. An idea was skulking somewhere deep inside his mind- but half-formed, infantile, a whisper just out of earshot.

Sherlock sat through the banter, relying mostly on John to carry the conversation, but before long they had reached the important questions and he couldn't zone out any longer.

"Let's talk about the pills," the interviewer said. "They were the clear solution- why not just take them? John, it seemed like you were seriously considering it."

"I was," John answered. "I just… I trusted Sherlock. I didn't want him to get hurt. He suggested the berries and I didn't know what to do, so I followed his lead."

_What? _Sherlock glanced at the boy sat next to him, and realised with a dull thud in his stomach that he wasn't the only one presenting an image here. Already he could see the explanations, the exposés on the news: they had been confused, weakened, desperate. Their actions had been stupid and rash and based on a love affair that wouldn't last. That was the story they would sell. _This is how we stay alive._ Ideas were spreading through Sherlock's head, edges sharp enough to scratch.

The conversation moved on. "Your kill total was two people," the interviewer informed John, as though he might have forgotten. "What do you think of that?"

"I did what I had to," John said, choosing his words carefully.

"Serra was from Sherlock's district, did you know?"

"I did," John said.

"You coped badly with her death."

"I suppose… I had never done something like that before. It came as a shock."

"I'll bet," the interviewer said. "But then the second time around, with Jupiter- that didn't seem to have anything like the same effect. Tell me, what was going through your head afterwards?"

"That I had saved him," he answered. "That I had saved Sherlock's life, and that nothing else mattered."

"So you'd kill for him?"

"I'd die for him," John answered. Sherlock remembered after the second announcement, how they'd both reached for the gun to use on themselves- he remembered the _second announcement- _and that was all he needed. The whisper had grown to a shout, and that was all he needed.

"Sherlock, how about _your _kill rate?" the man said, turning towards Sherlock. "It was the same, but with none of the emotional response."

Sherlock shrugged. "Self-defence."

"What about Kate?"

"She was clearly going to attack. Like I said- self-defence." There were murmurs from the crowd; his answer hardly matched John's. He didn't make eye contact with the boy next to him.

They made it through the rest of the interview relatively incident free, and once they made it out Sherlock found himself alone with John for the first time in days. For a few seconds, they just clung to each other in silence. There was too much to say to say anything.

"You look good," John said, looking him over. Sherlock's eyes were drawn back to the cane in his hand.

"You're limping," he said.

"I know."

"Your leg didn't get hurt in the arena."

"I know. It just…" He shrugged helplessly. Sherlock opted to leave it, kissing John again instead. He knotted his hands in John's hair and tried to pretend nothing else existed, but he had never been able to shut out his own mind.

"Sherlock?" John asked softly when they separated, gently touching a hand to the side of Sherlock's face. "I… how can I help? Can I help?"

"You promised- in the arena- that it would all work out eventually," Sherlock said. The tiredness from earlier was back, heavy in the marrow of his bones. "I don't think you can do that again, can you?"

There were a few seconds of silence, and then John's fingers interlaced with his. The sensation was becoming second nature to Sherlock, the natural resting position of his hands. "I promise that this isn't the end," is what John said instead.

"That's not quite the same thing."

"Maybe it's better." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Less definite. Up to us."

"The scared children from Eight and Twelve," Sherlock said, not entirely sarcastically.

"The stuff of stars," John countered. Sherlock just looked at him.

"What did they say to you?" John asked softly, but Sherlock was prepared to answer now. He had made the decision already. The second he had heard 'I'd die for him' and looked at John and knew it wasn't a lie- knew that the feeling was mutual- he'd chosen. If _they_ could do one thing and then take it back, why couldn't he?

"Nothing of interest," he said airily. The faces of the dead- Kate, Lestrade, Irene- swam up to accuse him. _I'm sorry, _he thought, the guilt piercing. _But I promise, this isn't the end._ John nodded, and whilst Sherlock wasn't entirely sure John believed him, he left the subject alone.

"We'd better get back," John said. "Glamor might come looking for me, and God knows I don't want that."

"Nobody wants that."

"You've never even met him."

"I don't have to. His name is _Glamor._"

John started to laugh. "So what?"

"Not only is it ridiculous, he doesn't even have the good grace to spell the word right. He's so lazy that he actually leaves a letter out."

John laughed louder, and Sherlock felt a smile taking over his own lips. _I'll do what you said, President Moriarty, _he thought to himself- _for now._

_I promise that this isn't the end._

It was a dangerous choice- even more so than an outright rejection- but it was _his. _Moriarty had only offered him two solutions, but now was no time to start playing by the rules. The games hadn't finished: they had only just begun. And, as ever, Sherlock had no intention of losing.

* * *

><p><strong>AN- 'Catching Light', the sequel, will be arriving some time in the next few months. This story won't be updated when it does, so if you want to stay up to date on it, you can add me to your Author Alert list/Follow me on Tumblr/check my Profile page/stalk me/whatever.**

**I still can't thank you enough for your utterly incredible support. ****I can never tell you how much it means to me, but I'm never going to stop trying! **

****Thank you so, so much.****


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